


Love Never Dies

by Annie46fic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Bottom Sam, M/M, Show level violence, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Vampires, set in the uk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie46fic/pseuds/Annie46fic
Summary: Count Dracula - star of literature and screen is a work of fiction, isn't he?  A spate of dead girls in Highgate and Whitby make Sam think differently, and he persuades Dean to come to England with him to investigate these 'new' vampire-like killings.  Turn's out Stoker's work of fiction wasn't fiction after all, and maybe the Count is looking for some 'fresh' blood!
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109
Collections: Supernatural and J2 Big Bang 2020





	Love Never Dies

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Supernatural and J2 BigBang challenge 2020. My artist was [Mangacat201](https://mangacat201.livejournal.com). Thank you for the wonderful and dark art, and for using the best Dracula EVER! Please go and give her lovely artwork lots of kudos [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085797)  
> Thank you to Wendy for the Big Bang challenge, which took our minds off a lockdown which never ends.

**London England – Present day**

_The darkness was so cloying it was almost claustrophobic; her mobile phone threw very little light, and she couldn’t see a hand in front of her face. Her breath was coming fast, and hot, and despite the cold her body was bathed in sweat. The main road with its vibrancy and brightness seemed miles behind her, and she questioned the wisdom of taking this shortcut rather than hailing a taxi. There was a rustle in the undergrowth to her left, and she heard a dog bark in the distance. Her neighborhood was literally yards away and she quickened her pace, her shoes crunching the drying leaves and mud smearing along the back of her legs._

_“Good evening.”_

_She stopped dead as the man appeared in front of her; sudden and abrupt as if by magic. There was a scream somewhere in the back of her throat but it stuck there, and when her mouth opened nothing came out but a gasp._

_“Are you alright?”_

_Despite the darkness she could see him clearly. He was tall and thin with a pale almost luminous face, and iron grey hair cut short to his head. He wore an old-fashioned dinner suit and he looked unbelievably clean. His eyes appeared black in the milky white of his skin, and the bones of his cheeks were sharp and defined. She couldn’t tear her eyes from him, and she couldn’t move. Her heartbeat stilled in her chest and she, despite everything, felt no fear._

_“Come – let me help you.”_

_He reached out a long-fingered hand and took hers in a firm grip. His skin was as cold as ice yet his fingers branded her and she shuddered but not with anxiety, with something deeper, more shocking . . . with lust. She wanted him. It was a sudden, desperate need and her legs went weak causing her to slump against him. She felt him smile and his head dipped a little so that his mouth was close to her neck._

_“May I?”_

_Smooth and sweet, sharp teeth grazed her skin and she leaned in closer. Her whole body was tingling now, and she wanted to touch herself; to put her hands on her own breasts, to give herself relief._

_“Please.”_

_Her own voice low and needy, and then he moved - swift and impulsive as he buried his teeth into her throat. The sensation should have been painful but it wasn’t and she closed her eyes, a moan rising in her throat and exploding from her mouth. She could feel herself hurtling towards orgasm without a hand on her, and she bent backwards like a whore offering herself to him. He laughed against her, and he sucked harder and harder as stars burst behind her eyelids. The world as she knew it whirled away, and all she knew was his body behind her, his lips on her and incredible, unbearable pleasure._

****

**Lebanon – Kansas – one week later**

“You remember the British men of letters?” Sam was hunched over the laptop frowning. In the wavering orange of the lamp Dean could see the silver threads among the chestnut mop that Sam still insisted on keeping long and, definitely, untidy. When Sam was sick or disheartened it used to depress him, make him anxious but now it just made him smile fondly; happy that Sam had lived long enough to have silver in his hair.

“Oh yeah – good times.” He shuddered. “Can’t say I think of them often.”

“Well, I was sorta guessing they were still around . . . in some form at least. Not here of course, but in the UK.”

“Not that I care but I’ll bite - why are you asking?”

“There’s been a spate of murders both in London, and in some Yorkshire town called . . . .” Sam squinted at the screen. “Whitby.”

“And?”

“All the victims appeared to have died from severe blood loss, some of them had barely any in their bodies. Also they all had marks either on their throats, or around their breasts.”

“Vampires?”

“So it appears, but do you remember what Toni Bevell told us? That as soon as a monster stepped foot in Britain they were captured, taken to a _special place_ and killed. That doesn’t seem to be happening anymore, and there have been ten women killed in the last two weeks. No one seems to have any clue.”

“This is our problem why?” Dean flopped down next to his brother and patted his arm lightly. Even though they had managed to defeat most of the evil put in front of them, even though they swore they were retiring and using their knowledge to train other, younger hunters, even though they were getting older and needed more rest Sam didn’t seem to be able to let go.

“People are dying, Dean,” Sam’s voice was low. “And that has always been our problem.”

“We said we were quitting, Sammy.” Dean kept his hand on Sam’s arm, his gentle touch turning into a harder squeeze, a gesture of comfort and support. “There are plenty of vampire kills here in the good old US of A, we don’t need to concern ourselves with . . . ,” he paused and frowned at the laptop. “Whitby – wherever the fuck that is!”

“I just . . . .” Sam sat back and crossed his arms. In that one moment he looked like his eighteen year old self; stubborn, determined to do what he wanted, and to let no one stop him. “There’s something about this. There’s something . . . off.”

“Off?”

“Yeah. I this seems a really out there thing to say, Dean but the names here where victims were found . . . Whitby, The church St Mary, and Highgate Cemetery . . . they all seem so familiar.” Sam paused for a moment and then he snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. “Dracula!” he said and nodded to himself. “They are all places from the novel, Dracula.”

“That’s a pretty old book, isn’t it?” Dean recalled they had the novel somewhere in the bunker’s archives, and he was certain that his brother had read it. In fact he would take a bet that his brother had read most of the volumes in the bunker – more than once.

“Yeah. Bram Stoker wrote in it 1897, but it’s been adapted countless times as a film, or a play, and even a ballet.”

“Great,” Dean sighed. “I still don’t get how all of this links to the victims in Britain, or how it is OUR FUCKING PROBLEM!”

Sam couldn’t hold back a chuckle and Dean was glad to see dimples. Since they had _retired_ Sam had looked better, he had color in his cheeks, there were no huge shadows beneath his eyes and he had put on weight. All Dean wanted for his brother was happiness, and a long peaceful life. They had managed to escape Death (well Billie) and he didn’t ever want to be in that position again. 

“Have you ever read the novel?” Sam swung his legs around and sat with them either side of the chair arm. It was his favorite relaxing position and he often chose it when he wanted to talk, or when he had something he really wanted to say.

“Nah, but I saw Coppola’s film,” he said and grinned at Sam’s eye roll.

“Yeah, well it wasn’t quite true to the book.” Sam bit his lip. “The point I’m trying to make is . . . these kills, and the location of the kills . . . they are all in the areas that Bram Stoker wrote about.”

“So whoever is doing this is a Dracula buff? Maybe it isn’t a vampire, or even a nest of vampires, at all. Maybe it is some sort of sick serial killer who thinks he is Dracula.”

“No.” Sam leaned forward. “I was reading some of the news reports from England, and – well – three weeks ago there was a massive unexpected storm over the seaside town of Whitby. During the storm a passenger ship from Romania was caught up on rough seas, and ended up grounded on the shingle beach. When the local coastguard went to investigate, the ship was empty of all human life. There was no one - the cabins, the engine room, and the crew’s quarters . . . all empty. One of them said it was like a ghost ship. However, when the cops went in they found several broken and empty boxes full of earth.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

“Each coffin was labelled, and all of them were going to the same place, an old Victorian building somewhere in London, near Highgate Cemetery.” Sam seemed to be more and more excited with each sentence and Dean couldn’t help but be drawn in, fascinated to know where this was actually going. “Highgate has a long connection with the supernatural and well . . . .”

“What are you trying to say, Sammy?”

“What if . . . what if Dracula wasn’t a work of fiction? What if it really was a series of journals about an actual vampire? What if . . .?” Sam’s eyes were alight with eagerness and enthusiasm. “What if he actually existed, Dean?”

“But if he did exist – and that’s a big if – according to the _novel_ he was killed, right?”

“Yeah, but maybe that is just part of the _fiction_. Maybe he didn’t actually die.”

Dean stared at his brother and wondered if Sam had lost his mind; deep down though he was pretty certain that Sam believed every word of his new theory and – even worse – Sam wanted to follow his new theory up, which would mean just one, horrific thing.

Flying to England!

****

Sam knew that Dean wasn’t particularly happy, or even a little bit enthused about their upcoming trip. Dean hated flying, and this would be a particularly long flight. Sam also knew that Dean thought the journey was a waste of time (and money, even though the money wasn’t technically theirs). He had to admit his brother had a valid point. Sam’s theory, such as it was, was pretty out there (even for them) but something deep down was driving him to do this, and he wasn’t actually certain himself what it was.

Life had never been easy for the Winchesters, but in the past five or six years it had just gotten increasingly harder. They had lost people they loved; they had been estranged (more than once), and they had faced down God himself. The fact they had survived was something to celebrate in itself, and Sam had agreed with Dean (in principal) that they needed to take several steps back and _retire_. Granted they still did the occasional job, but they only took on small hunts and tried to keep themselves out of harm’s way. Younger, less experienced hunters came to them for advice and equipment. Their surviving friends (like Jody and Donna) visited regularly, and they actually had nights in Dean’s _Dean Cave_ watching their new TV, (not haunted or cursed this time) and drinking beer. It was a good life. The best life they could hope for given the circumstances, and Sam was happy.

Yet, something was missing and Sam didn’t know quite what. Perhaps, at one time, he’d thought about settling down, he’d wanted to marry Jess but that was decades ago and he was a different person now. Relationships with Amelia and, more recently, Eileen had failed miserably and he was resigned to the fact he wasn’t going to have a wife, or a family of his own. That was okay, but it left an empty space in him that he couldn’t even begin to fill. There were people around him of whom he was fond . . . Jack, Cas, _new Bobby and Charlie_ , but the only real long and lasting love he had was for his brother. It was an odd feeling – not particularly bad – but just . . . well - odd. He remembered Becky and the stories she had _written_ about Sam/Dean. It had seemed weird at the time, but to his shock and shame, he had thought about it. In fact he’d found himself thinking about it more and more often. He couldn’t rationalize it or even put it into words, but he would look at Dean and he would imagine . . . he shook his head, and sighed. Perhaps that was what was missing. Perhaps he needed to go out and in Dean’s own frank words, _get laid_. 

So here he was using this trip to England as some sort of way to fill an unfillable hole. He’d tried to sell it as a _sort of_ vacation, and a chance to visit somewhere they had never been. Dean hadn’t been thrilled but he had obviously seen something, gleaned something in Sam’s demeanor and he had, eventually said _‘yes’_. Now they were planning a couple of months abroad, taking in London and Whitby, and maybe visiting some places of interest - Dean seemed desperate to see Madame Tussauds. Sam was stupidly excited, and it was nice to feel something that wasn’t fear or guilt. Their planned trip started tomorrow and, as long as Dean didn’t take off running, they should be in England in no time.

****

**London – Week One**

“Fuck me, it’s cold here!” Dean wrapped his arms around his chest and stomped his feet; it was raining, and Sam could see his breath in the air. They were standing outside of the airport with a couple of bags and trying desperately to hail a cab ( _Taxi – that’s what they call it here, Dean_ ). Cars roared by them, splashing them constantly with damp and often dirty water. 

“I guess, but it’s October so I guess that counts as nearly winter.” Sam wished he’d worn more layers, and made a mental note to buy them both more substantial coats and waterproof boots. He was tired and more than a little jet-lagged and all he wanted was to get to the hotel they had booked (it was something nice – no cheap motels here), and have a shower.

“Need help lads?” 

Finally a car had stopped and a middle aged man leaned out of the wound down window.

“Yeah, can you take us to the Grange Langham Court hotel? It’s near Highgate.”

“Yanks, eh?” The man grinned and nodded to the car. “Get in, gents – cheapest ride in town.”

Sam sighed with relief as the two of them threw their bags into the trunk ( _apparently it’s the boot here, Dean_ ) of the car, and climbed into the back. It was warm and spacious inside, and smelled of leather. Dean gave a sigh of relief mixed with contentment, and closed his eyes whilst Sam pressed his face to the window like a small child peering through the wet murk and trying to spot places of interest.

“We get a lot of ghouls up in Highgate.”

The cab (taxi) driver spoke suddenly, and broke his reverie. Sam bit his lip to hold back hysterical laughter as he wondered just what sort of _ghoul_ the man was referring to.

“Yeah?” 

“Creepy sorts taking photos of tombs, and goths just sitting around reading poetry but recently the gutter press – particularly after the killings.”

Sam’s ears pricked up and he leaned forward putting an interested expression on his face.

“Really, what killings?”

“Guess it ain’t reached the states yet.” The man seemed to be taking an unhealthy pleasure in telling Sam all of this. “But there has been quite a few killin’s in the cemetery. Young women, some of them . . . ,” he dropped his voice to a whisper even though there wasn’t anyone else to hear. “Naked as the day they were born. All of them drained of blood. Like a horror film, it is.”

“What . . . um . . . what do the police say?” Sam couldn’t believe his luck; an hour into their _hunting vacation_ and he already had a tenuous lead.

“They’re calling it ‘The Vampire killer’.” the driver certainly had a sense of the dramatic, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning. Beside him Dean let out a snore and wriggled in his seat, and Sam shook his head fondly. His brother would have gotten a kick out of this, but he didn’t have the heart to wake him. “Worse serial killer since the ripper – Yorkshire and Jack. Odd thing is there has been a spate of similar killings in Whitby. It’s all very, very weird.”

“Yeah, sounds like it. Just how many women have been found now?”

“Seven here in Highgate, and another five in Whitby. The oddest thing is that one of the victims had a fiancé, and he swore this way and that that he’d seen her a few days after her death. Police put it down to grief of course, but that’s just like a vampire movie ain’t it?”

Sam nodded; this was a new development and it was one that made his ears prick up and his hunter senses come alive. Vampire’s usually drained their victims and left them to die unless they were building a nest. Dracula had been no different. In the novel he had drained Lucy Westenra and turned her into a vampire, and he had also begun the process with Mina Harker. He’d also had three brides (at least according to the book), and he had kept them alive by feeding them baby’s blood and leaving Jonathan Harker as a semi willing victim.

When Dracula had drained Lucy she had come back as a vampire pretty quickly. In the book she had wandered across Hampstead Heath tempting small children and drinking their blood. She had only been stopped when Van Helsing and Lucy’s erstwhile suitors found her tomb and _‘laid her to rest’_ by driving a stake through her heart, and chopping off her head.

Sam sighed; perhaps he was reading far too much into this. Perhaps this was just a copy-cat killer who had seen too many Dracula movies, or maybe it was an ordinary run of the mill vampire who had settled in England and wanted to build his own nest. 

“Hey, you okay?” The driver had stopped at lights and was frowning at him with some concern. “You zoned out there for a minute.”

“Yeah.” Sam shook his head and smiled with, what he hoped was, a reassuring smile. “I was just fascinated by what you were saying. I’m – um – kind of into Vampire movies.”

“My wife loves ‘em.” The driver slowed and Sam peered through the rain misted window to see the hotel loom out of the night. It looked smart and modern (compared to what they were used to at least) and he nudged Dean awake, amused by his brother’s mutterings and moans. “Well, here we are boys. ‘Ave a good stay here, and . . .” he paused and gave Sam an exaggerated wink. “Look out for vampires.”

****

They hauled their meager luggage into the room and stood there with mouths open. Sam had been right, the hotel was far better than any motel they’d ever stayed at (apart from the one Mick Davies had paid for during the ill-conceived werewolf hunt, that had almost killed Claire.) The room was large and pristine, the bed’s reasonably sized with huge warm looking duvets, and a lot of soft welcoming pillows. There was a kettle in one corner with an array of teas, coffees and cookies on a plate. There was a fairly large wardrobe, a cabinet, and an enormous full length mirror. Dean cheered and bounced backwards onto one of the beds (the one nearest the door Sam noted, cos old habits die hard). He was grinning widely, and already reaching for a cookie.

“I’m fucking starving,” he declared through a mouthful of crumbs. “Should we order room service . . . try an English delicacy?”

“Yeah, why not. I’m pretty tired too.” Sam perched on the end of the second bed and stared out of the window. The city was alight, yellow, orange, and blue. He could see for miles and swore he could almost see the lights glittering on the Thames.

“What did the cab driver mean?” Dean laid back and rested his head on one arm while holding the hotel menu in the other. “When he said watch out for vampires?”

“We were talking about the murders. It seems like it is a big thing in the media over here.” Sam poured himself a glass of sparking water and drank gratefully. “The press are actually calling him the Vampire killer.”

“Original, but there could be quite a few explanations.”

“I know, and I’m considering them all but there’s just something . . . .” He smiled wryly. “Apparently the fiancé of one of the ‘victims’ saw her after she had been murdered, the papers are citing grief but . . . .”

“So we are probably looking at an actual blood sucker, not a serial killer?”

“Seems so, Dean.”

“But not necessarily the _Count_?”

“Not necessarily no, but the fact that there are bodies in both London and Whitby - that’s a little bit of a coincidence.”

“But he was a work of fiction.”

“Maybe, there’s just something . . . .” Sam rubbed his forehead. “I can’t put my finger on it, b-but there’s just something,” he repeated lamely.

“Sammy, I got through the flight and here we are thousands of miles away from the bunker, from monsters (well American monsters at least) and from all the things that bring us down. Let’s look at this as a vacation with hunting on the side, rather than the other way round.”

Sam smiled and climbed on the bed next to Dean; the gap between was narrower than they were used to, and he found himself crushed up against his brother reveling in the solid warmth that always made him feel so safe.

“So what are we eating?”

****

Several helpings of thick sausages and mashed potatoes later, and Dean was snoring; asleep on top of his bed, the TV still playing some lame British comedy. Sam knew he should probably get himself settled but he couldn’t sleep, so he sat on his own bed and fired up his laptop. He checked his emails and then typed ‘Dracula’ into the search engine. There were at least 75,800,000 results and it was hard to know where to start. Because the killings were so close to the novel he decided to start there and typed in ‘Bram Stoker’ instead. 

It appeared that Bram Stoker, (Abraham) Stoker was born on November 8th 1847 in Ireland. He had been an invalid in early childhood but he outgrew that weakness to become an outstanding athlete and football (soccer) player in his youth. As well as becoming suddenly athletic in his youth he also earned a degree in mathematics. He worked in the Civil Service (which Sam assumed was some sort of lowly government organization and during that time he also became an unpaid drama critic for the Dublin Evening Mail where he made the acquaintance of his idol an actor called Sir Henry Irving, and, from 1878 until Irving’s death 27 years later, Stoker had acted as Irving’s manager, writing as many as 50 letters a day for him and accompanying him on his American tours. 

Apparently Stoker turned to fiction late in his life and only published his first novel in 1890. Dracula was written seven years later in 1897. As Sam already knew the novel was written chiefly in the form of diaries and journals that were kept by the principal characters: Jonathan Harker, who made the first contact with the vampire Count Dracula; Wilhelmina (“Mina”) Harker (née Murray), Jonathan’s eventual wife; Dr. John (“Jack”) Seward, a psychiatrist and sanatorium administrator; and Lucy Westenra. 

Sam closed the tab and scrolled down a few search headings down until something caught his eye.

**_Bram Stoker Claimed That Parts of Dracula Were Real_ **

Sam felt an odd excitement churning in his gut and he clicked on the link. What he saw made his heartbeat quicken, and made him think that his weird feelings hadn’t been for nothing. Long story short the article claimed that Stoker hadn’t made up Dracula, or Harker, or his wife at all but they were all real life characters.

It made fascinating reading and Sam found himself clicking avidly trying to determine whether Stoker had been deluded, or if Dracula really had existed. He spoke of Harker and Mina and called them friends. He knew Dr Steward too, and the most interesting thing of all was what Stoker had written in the Icelandic version of the book -

_’I am quite convinced that there is no doubt whatever, that the events here described really took place however unbelievable and incomprehensible they might appear at first sight. And I am further convinced that they must always remain to some extent incomprehensible’._

Sam rubbed his eyes; apparently Stoker’s regular publisher had balked at the idea, and had refused to publish the novel until he made changes. Any hint that the story might be a true record of events was removed from the novel, and _Dracula_ , or at least the version that everyone knows, came to be.

Glancing at the bedside alarm Sam realized, suddenly, how late it was. Dean was still snoring away beside him, and it was probably time to try and turn in himself. He’d never found sleep easy and he was pretty excited and wired by what he’d found, but if he didn’t get any rest he wouldn’t enjoy any of the things they had planned for tomorrow – or today – if you were being specific.

He lay back on the bed and folded his hands behind his head. Turning slightly to stare out of the window he watched the stars fading, watched the moon as it waned and made way for the daylight. It was warm in the room, and the bed was extraordinarily comfortable. His lids began to droop and soon, before dawn broke, he was asleep.

****

Breakfast was so late it was technically brunch. 

The hotel staff were very helpful and found them a table in the corner of the dining room where they ordered scrambled eggs, crumpets and bacon. There was a pot of tea on the table, but no coffee and Sam wouldn’t let Dean ask insisting that he tried – what he jokingly called – the local delicacy. Dean wasn’t sure he liked tea but he splashed the black liquid liberally with milk and added enough sugar to make it almost unbearably sweet.

“So.” He spread butter onto his crumpet and began to stuff it down, he was starving and it felt like he hadn’t eaten for decades rather than hours. A glance at the wooden antique, posing as a clock, in the corner told him it was already 2pm and a fair portion of the day was over. “What are we getting up to?”

“Thought we might go to the cemetery.” Sam was sipping at his tea like a true Brit, and Dean couldn’t resist smiling fondly at his brother as if he were still a toddler and in diapers. “It’s only a few minutes’ walk away and open till 5pm.” He leaned back in his chair and pointed to the window. “And it isn’t raining, so there’s that.”

They left the hotel and started to walk; it might not be raining but it was bitterly cold and Dean’s canvas jacket didn’t do anything to keep him warm. Beside him he could see Sam striding out, his breath puffing white in the air. A shopping trip was definitely on the cards as most of the British people he’d seen were wrapped up like mummies in scarves, hats and huge thick overcoats and a few of them had given Sam and Dean pitying looks as they shivered along.

“Tomorrow we are going to whatever market is near here and we are getting some decent coats.” Dean noticed that they were getting closer to the cemetery and he couldn’t help but stare as they walked through the massive gates. He’d seen more boneyards in his life than any person would really want to see, but this was something else. They paused at the desk and paid their £4.00 entry fee and Sam, being the geek he was, insisted on booking a tour of the West Cemetery because he wanted to see it all. The bored looking girl at the desk nodded and suggested they come back in a couple of days for their tour, and then they were inside.

Everywhere they looked there were graves but not just normal headstones; there were angels, stone animals, women or men carved out in stone and lying prone across the earth. There were rows and rows of, what looked like, mausoleums and Dean couldn’t help the gasp that slipped from his lips.

“Jeez Sammy this is somethin.”

“Yeah.” Sam was reading the glossy pamphlet which had cost them almost as much as the entry fee. There was an eagerness about his expression and he looked like an over excited puppy out for the first time. “Dean listen to this . . . in the 70’s the cemetery had fallen into disarray, and people used it for all sorts of supernatural activity – séances, devil worship.”

“The usual, then?” Dean ran his hand along one of the mossy tombstones and peered at the date. “Some of these graves predate America,” he said with a grin.

“Anyway.” Sam was on a roll. “It says here that in 1967, two adolescent girls were walking home along Swain's Lane – that’s the road we came down to get here - and they claimed to have witnessed the dead rising from their graves. In another account a teenager claimed to have been woken one night with _something cold and clinging_ on her hand, which left prominent marks the next morning. Other reports circulated of a ‘tall man in a hat’ walking in the area, before melting through the cemetery's walls.” Sam turned the page, glee obvious. “The situation turned nastier in the early months of 1970, as, apparently, several animals were found dead near the cemetery, their bodies had been drained of blood and they had what appeared to be lacerations on their throats.”

“So . . . ?” Dean knew the answer but he just wanted to hear Sam say it. He hadn’t seen his brother this animated in an age. The thing with Chuck, and what had followed had nearly broken Sam. It had taken a long time for him to be even half mended. For months they had stayed in the bunker with Sam spending hour upon hour in his room not sleeping or eating until Dean had burst in and dragged him out. Several beers and a few tears later and Sam had some color in his cheeks and was smiling again. Sometime later they had begun hunting again, and Dean was relieved to see that Sam could still get so fired up about it.

“So maybe my theory isn’t so ‘out there’ after all. When you were sleeping last night I started researching, and I found out that Stoker first claimed that _Dracula_ was a true version of events. He claimed that the Harker’s and Dr Jack Steward were real people.”

“But doesn’t Dracula die at the end of the novel?”

“Yeah, but if we are going with that there’s no reason why Stoker couldn’t have changed the ending. Apparently he changed his original version to suit his publisher, so who is to say he didn’t change that?”

“If Dracula did survive, then why haven’t we seen or heard anything about him? We’ve met plenty of vampires in our time – including the Alpha – you’d think that we might have come across him.”

“He’s famous! A celebratory you might say. Of all the vampires we’ve met there isn’t any we have read any books about.”

“I’ll go with that.” Dean peered inside one of the dusty mausoleums and shuddered. “However – remember when we were discussing those pesky Brits? Surely they would have known if some Romanian Count was wandering around in their country. We both know how much information the Men of Letters hold.”

“He’s not in Britain at the end of the book though. At the end he’s returning home to the Carpathians. What if . . . what if he stayed there for a while, and only came back now and then? We know that vampires can shape-shift, so why couldn’t he return as someone else?”

“Fuck, Sammy – you could write a novel yourself with all of those theories.” Dean stopped and sat down on a wrought iron seat covered in moss and ivy. Sam paused for a moment and squatted down on the floor beside him. It was freezing now and already growing dark. In the encroaching twilight the white stones loomed large, and it was easy to see how people – ordinary people – could be spooked by such a place. 

“Yeah, very funny, Dean.” His brother sounded proud, voice wavering a little, emotional. 

“I’m glad you suggested this _trip_ , Sam.” Dean reached down and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. It was broad again, and he felt it twitch a little under his fingers. He had a sudden and totally unexpected urge to lean forward and kiss the crown of Sam’s head, and to feel the softness of unruly hair under his lips. It was weird, but not worrying so he let it slide. “It’s kinda nice – like the vacation we never had.”

“Thanks,” Sam’s voice shook again but Dean could virtually feel his smile, and despite the freezing cold evening he suddenly felt very warm inside.

****

Due to the fact that it was below zero outside they decided to eat in their room again. Both of them were yawning, and neither had the energy to do much than find a film that suited them, and watch the TV. 

As before Dean dozed off before Sam; the flashing clock near his bed told him it was only just past 11pm, but it felt as if it were much later. Darkness had fallen early and the night sky was clear and bright. Sam pulled up one of the easy chairs that were placed in the room, and faced it towards the window. He liked looking out onto the city, flashing lights beneath clear, star-filled skies. If he looked downwards he could see people still rushing here and there. There were women dressed in flimsy dresses despite the cold, and men wrapped in brightly colored scarves coming home from some sporting event. The calendar told Sam it was the 26th October and five days from Halloween, and he wondered how time had slipped by so fast, wondered how he had missed the weeks and months passing him by. Next May Sam would be forty and, if he was honest with himself, he never thought he would make it even that far. He knew he was getting older, knew by the ache in his bones in the morning, by the throb in his knees when he’d been running, and from the aching of his eyes after too long at the laptop. Dean had been right when he’d suggested they take a step back from hunting. It hadn’t killed them, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t. Sam was bone weary of loss, and he couldn’t even consider the idea of losing Dean permanently.

****

Sam had been dozing and as he opened his eyes he could feel the vague ends of a dream slipping from his mind. He rubbed at his face wondering what could have woken him. Dean was still sleeping and the room was quiet. Sam felt odd; weird and displaced. He stood up for a moment and peered out into the night. There was a bat outside of his window. For a moment he thought he was seeing things or still dreaming, because he’d never actually seen a bat so large but the thing was definitely there. It was dipping and swooping, and dropping in and out of his field of vision. He was certain that large bats like this weren’t native to England, and the hairs on his neck stood up. There was something else too - someone was standing in the street just below his window; it was a woman wearing a flimsy shift that blew around her ankles, and showed her white flesh beneath. Long, black hair hung across her shoulders and, even from this distance he could see her eyes, dark and luminous staring back at him. He took a shaky breath to ground himself. It was like something from a cheap eighties horror movie, and it should have been amusing but it was strangely unsettling, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

***

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice, heavy with sleep, broke his reverie and he turned to see his brother looking at him confused. “What the hell are you doing at the window at this time? You should be in bed.”

“There’s a . . . ,” even as he spoke he knew she wouldn’t be there, and, sure enough, when he looked back down the woman was gone and so was the large bat. He bit his lip and rubbed his eyes, his memory playing its greatest hits; his wall coming down, seeing Lucifer, and having an angel inside of him. Losing time from being possessed by the devil himself, not to mention Meg, or any of the other minor players who had taken control of his body. “Doesn’t matter,” he couldn’t bring himself to say what he had seen. He didn’t want to Dean to think he was losing it again. “Jet lag,” he ended lamely and hoped his brother would let it lie.

“Yeah.” Dean patted the bed next to him. “Seems I can’t trust you to sleep, so you better get on over here where I can keep an eye on you. I want you fresh for our little jaunt to Oxford Street tomorrow.”

Sam couldn’t hold back a smile and he did as he was told, lying down beside his brother and resting his head on the pillow. Dean laid back down too and his breath soon evened out, the comforting in and out of his breathing sending Sam into a peaceful sleep of his own.

****

Oxford Street was long, crowded and difficult to maneuver, and neither brother had much experience in shopping. Mostly their clothes came from the goodwill or from Army suppliers and, apart from their cheap suits, they hadn’t ever really been in many _proper_ clothes stores to make purchases. Sam was aware of the people around him, and he couldn’t help but smile as he watched some of the women’s faces as Dean walked by. His brother seemed oblivious to it all, but Sam wished that Dean was still the carefree flirt he remembered from his youth. So much had happened and it had changed them (and not always for the best). He’d longed for normal once, and now he longed for it again. Sure he would always be a hunter at heart but he wanted peace, quiet and domesticity for them both.

As they stopped to look in a store window Sam felt the back of his neck prickle, and he turned swiftly to look behind him. There was an older man standing a little way back and, when he noticed Sam staring, he shifted and blended back into the crowd. It was weird and, now Sam knew he was there, he found himself constantly turning to see if the man was still following them. He didn’t want to say anything to Dean but he was certain they were being tailed, and he wondered if the older guy was related in some way to the woman who had appeared outside his hotel window.

He knew, of course, that vampires could move around in the day. It wasn’t comfortable for them but the sunlight didn’t kill them, it only made them weaker. The majority of them preferred to hunt at night, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t attack during daylight hours if they wanted to.

“Sam?”

Dean could see his little brother was uneasy; four or five times now Sam had turned around to look behind them as they moved slowly along the crowded street. Dean couldn’t help but follow his gaze and, once or twice, he caught sight of an older man a few feet behind them trying to mingle with the crowd. The guy was short and burly with a salt and pepper beard. He wore a huge black coat and a flat cap. Most noticeably he was wearing shades in the middle of a day that was dark and dull, and that alone peaked Dean’s suspicion.

“Yeah.” His brother’s high-boned cheeks turned pink, and he lowered his eyes and scuffed his shoe against the pavement.

“You aren’t going mad, man. I can see him too.”

Sam’s shoulders relaxed noticeably and Dean patted his arm gently. He made a slight gesture with his head and turned into the nearest store. Sam nodded, and followed his brother inside.

It was one of the huge clothing chains that seemed to pepper Oxford Street. Music pounded through the entire store, and it was rammed with people of all ages. Sam felt the sudden heat of the place, and sweat prickled almost instantly on his forehead and trickled down his neck. Dean’s eyes were wide as he stared at the women who were sorting through the rails of clothing, lifting up dresses and holding them against their bodies.

“We should be able to lose him now for sure.” Dean grinned and made his way to where there were rows and rows of men’s coats and shirts. “And we should buy something too . . . kill two birds, and all that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam sounded reluctant and Dean knew with certainty that his brother was hiding something.

“Cough it up!” Dean gave Sam a little shake and moved closer so they could hear each other over the din.

“What?”

“There’s somethin’ else, Sammy.”

“Yeah . . . um . . . last night I looked out of my window and I saw a-a giant fucking bat! It was as large as a seagull, and it just sort of hovered there. Then there was this woman in the street below in a flimsy shift. She looked . . . um . . . she looked like one of Dracula’s brides.”

“Dracula’s brides?”

“Yeah, you know like in the book when Harker is in Castle Dracula and they come to him. They all wear white shifts, maybe they are burial shrouds. Well, she looked like that.”

“Do ya think she came to seduce you, Sammy?”

“Dean! I’m being serious here. To be honest I thought I was seeing things, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Well, it seems you were right – there is something going on here. I suggest we get something warm to wear, and then we go and do what you do best.”

“What’s that?”

“Research, Sammy . . . research.”

**** 

The British Library was only a thirty-minute walk from Oxford Street, and Dean could see how excited Sam was to be at such a geek friendly place. As visitors from another country they couldn’t actually join the library, but the young girl who sat behind the desk seemed more than taken with Sam and gave them instant access to the computers and the archives.

“What are we looking for?” Dean settled behind the oak table. It was refreshingly silent after the pounding music of the store and noise from the streets, and he felt like putting his head down and closing his eyes.

“I want to see if the Harker’s and Steward really did exist. If Stoker claimed his novel was a true version of events, then that is the best starting point. When I read about him on our first night here it seems he based the shipwreck in Dracula on a real-life event, and only changed the name of the ship. We need to see if any of it could have a basis in truth, or if he was just saying that to help sell his book and we are on some sort of wild goose chase.”

“Those bloodless corpses were real enough, and so were the murders. There’s something here, Sammy, but whether it’s a vampire or a lunatic only time will tell.”

“So, let’s begin then.” Sam looked up excitedly and Dean hid a chuckle behind his hand.

“Yeah, let’s begin.”

****

They were looking for the Harker’s but the words _needle_ and _haystack_ had never been truer. It was hard to know where to start as most searches took them to various sites, and then back to the novel. If Harker wasn’t fictional then he must have been a very secretive person, but Sam and, to a certain extent, Dean were nothing if not determined.

They moved from computer, to book, to journal and back again, but after two hours they were both irritated and hungry. Dean was about to suggest lunch when his brother, head bent over a huge book about Victorian Britain suddenly let out a whoop, which was quickly silence by Dean’s finger on his lips.

“Sammy,” there was humor in his brother’s voice. “We’re in a library.”

“I know, idiot.” Sam looked as if he might explode. “But look . . . look, Dean.”

He pointed to the book in front of him, and Dean bent over to see it more clearly. There were several photographs reproduced on the page. They were old and faded, and it was hard to see just what was in them but he peered closer and saw that there was one photograph of two people next to a short and stout old woman with a severe expression. 

“Wow,” he muttered. “Gnarly.”

“That’s Queen Victoria.” Sam jabbed his finger at the severe faced woman. “But read underneath. Look who is with her, Dean.”

Dean read the small print and took a double take. Written beneath the photograph in tiny neat script were the words,

_Solicitor Jonathan Harker, and his wife Mina, meet with her Royal Highness at her garden party at Osborne House_.

Now he knew who it was, Dean found himself staring at those faces from the past. The faces that had only existed in fiction, but were now proven to be fact. 

The man was tall; not as tall as Sam but that was virtually impossible. He was plainly dressed, and certainly wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd. He had dark hair and eyes, and looked as if he were in his late thirties or early forties. The woman was dressed modestly enough, but there was something in her eyes that drew Dean’s gaze. She was pretty enough; of average height, and her hair was mostly hidden under an ornate hat. She had her hand protectively on her husband’s arm, and the two of them were staring at the Queen with some awe.

“When was this?”

“It dates back to 1900 – three years after the novel was written, and a year before the Queen died.” Sam was still staring at the photograph. “From what I’ve read, only the great and the good were invited to these events. The Harker’s must have been deemed to have done something pretty spectacular.”

“Like killing a vampire?”

“Well, I doubt if that would have been public knowledge but perhaps the Queen knew more than others.”

“If you’re correct, then they didn’t succeed in killing the Count.” Dean ran a finger over the photograph, his eyes still on Harker’s wife. “So why were they there?”

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged. “This whole thing is getting more and more complicated.”

“Sammy, we both know how much you like a challenge.”

“Fuck off!” Sam flipped him the bird and Dean laughed, smothering his chuckles so he didn’t disturb the other patrons. He couldn’t stop his stomach from rumbling though and he nudged Sam’s shoulder.

“I think it’s time for food.”

“I guess.” Sam was staring at something else, and Dean noted that his amusement had gone and there was a dip between his eyebrows, and his mouth turned down. “Dean, I think I’ve found our mysterious friend. I think I’ve found our tail from earlier today.” 

Sam shoved the book over to Dean; it was a simple paperback version of _Dracula_ , and had obviously been loaned out a lot. It was smeared and dog-eared, and some of the pages were torn. Dean raised his eyebrows, and Sam huffed impatiently turning the book over. On the back cover was a picture of a middle- aged man. There was nothing spectacular about him. He had brown hair, a salt and pepper beard, and his eyes were staring sharply into the camera. However, if you added a pair of shades, and that stupid hat, then it was clearly the man who had been following them.

“Bram Stoker,” Sam said and swallowed hard. “It’s a picture of Bram Stoker.”

“Didn’t he die back in 1912?”

“According to his biography, yeah. Shit, this is turning into a really strange and complicated case.”

“I think we should go and get some food, then head back to the hotel. This is gonna take more time, Sam. We need to put our heads together, and come up with something cos this is not going how I imagined.”

“You’re right.” Sam smiled gratefully at his brother, and rubbed his eyes. He felt tired, and more than a little confused but deep down he couldn’t contain the excitement that this case was generating. “Let’s go.”

“I’m starving.” Dean got to his feet and cracked his neck. “Do ya think the limeys do a good line in pie?”

“I’m sure you can find a slice somewhere.” Sam pulled on his ‘new’ coat, and reveled in how warm and cozy it felt.

“I saw a bakery not far from here, so let’s hit it before it sells out.” Dean strode towards the stairs. “If we are gonna fight Dracula I need my fucking carbs.”

****

They spent the afternoon eating and talking; it was warm in the room and Sam felt more than a little relaxed. It was fantastic to spend time with his brother, especially quality time without any interruptions. There were no angels here, no hunters calling in for help, and best of all no sudden cell phone calls to inform them yet another friend had been killed. Away from the bunker it was almost as if they had gone back in time, back to the days when they drove for miles in Baby, staying in motel rooms and eating in diners. Hunting had been simple then. It was good versus evil, and man versus monster. In the years that had followed it had been obvious that it was never so black and white, but sometimes Sam longed for the days when they thought killing yellow-eyes would solve all of their problems.

After supper they settled in for the night. Dean chose a film, and they lay together on the same bed watching the flickering images in comfortable silence. His brother was a warm and solid weight beside him, and Sam had to resist the temptation to lay his head on Dean’s shoulder and snuggle.

****

Sam opened his eyes with a start. The TV was still playing some colorful old program from the eighties by the look of the fashions, music tinkling softly in the background. Beside him Dean was fast asleep, snoring gently and slumped to the side. Sam wondered what had woken him, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. There was something in the air, an electricity that seemed to crackle around him. He found himself walking over to the window again, without even knowing he wanted to go. It was almost like being possessed. His fingers working against the plastic window fastening, pulling it up and opening the window; the sudden coldness of the air a shock against his heated face. He heard something that sounded like the howl of a wolf, and a blue mist, filmy and insubstantial, floated through the open window causing Sam to step back, his heart beating hard in his chest.

There were two women standing in front of him now. One was hauntingly familiar; the woman from last night with her long black hair, and luminous eyes. He could see the shape of her body beneath her shift, the jut of her nipples against white breasts, and the triangle of dark hair between her legs. He could feel his body flooding with warmth, his cheeks flaming, and his cock hardening in his sleep pants. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. All he could do, was stare. The second woman was smaller, thinner, with long blonde hair and soft blue eyes. She smiled at him, smoothing her fingers down over the shift she wore, showing him her slender and alluring body. There was someone or something else there too. Sam couldn’t quite see whatever it was, but he could sense it. It felt like old evil. That alone should disturb him, but his focus was held tight by the two women. His eyes glued to them, his whole body suddenly alive.

Sam wasn’t innocent, and he certainly wasn’t a virgin; he’d had some turbulent relationships sure, but he had always enjoyed sex. Often, his celibacy had been enforced, rather than welcomed. Now he was more turned on than he had been in his entire life. His whole body seemed alive with it, his cock so fucking hard it hurt him and he wanted to put his hands on it to give himself some relief. He found himself slumping against the bed, his legs going from under him as he slithered down, tugging hard at the collar of his tee so that his throat was exposed. There was a voice in his head, low and compelling and it whispered to him making him shudder.

_’Go to them. Let them take you. Let them share your blood. You are just what they want, and just what I want. You will be mine soon enough.’_

The dark-haired woman was beside him, and he couldn’t even remember her moving at all. She bent down and he could smell her; the scent of earth, mold, and sex. He knew, distantly, he should be afraid but all he could do was to pull his tee over his head and give her full access to his shaking body.

“SAMMY!”

The spell was broken and the women were gone as quickly as they had arrived. Sam felt his head spinning, and he wanted to vomit. His cock still rock hard, his whole body almost paralyzed unable to move even as his brother dropped to his knees and shook him. Dean’s panic coloring his expression.

****

He was hot. The sweat bathed his forehead, and dripped down his cheeks like tears. The whole room seemed to contract in upon itself, and his body screamed with pain. His cock so fucking hard, that it hurt him. He was lying on his back, something soft beneath his head. He could hear harsh breathing, a labored in and out. He wanted to lift his hand to touch himself, but his limbs refused to do his bidding. Every single nerve was singing, and he was unable to do anything but moan.

“Sammy.”

Dean’s voice close to his ear; his brother’s hand on his forehead. Water was tipped into his parched mouth, and it made him choke and gasp. Dean’s fingers searched frantically around his throat and Sam knew, distantly, that he was looking for bites. He was looking for the deep mark of fangs in his skin.

“What did they do? Sammy? Fuck!”

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t answer Dean. All he wanted at this point was to relieve the pain in his cock. All he wanted was to come. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind came the thought that the vampires, and he was certain that’s what the women were, had had him in their thrall. He was under their spell. They had intended to drain him. They had intended to take his life blood, and he knew that they had intended on turning him. Now he felt more afraid than he had in decades, and he didn’t know what to do.

He must have drifted for a moment, because when he came back to himself he could feel the long length of Dean’s body against him. He could feel the warmth of Dean seeping into his icy cold skin. His limbs seemed to be working again, and his blood flowed through his veins hot and eager. Then he realized Dean’s hand was on his cock. His brother’s fingers wrapped firm and hard around him, the very feel of it was wonderful, and blissful. Sam couldn’t hold back the groan that hit him. His hips moving without him even realizing, and the yearning to come so desperate. Fuck, he was close, so close. All of a sudden nothing mattered but the feel of skin on skin, and the sound of his flesh moving in that tight grip. Then the tightening of his balls, and the inevitable explosion as his orgasm hit him hard and fast. He came so hard he almost passed out again.

****

They didn’t talk about it; Winchester’s never talked much, because usually their silence said enough. This time though the quiet was awkward and more than a little embarrassing, but Dean wasn’t saying anything and Sam didn’t want to bring the subject up at all, so they settled into a simple _not talking means we can pretend it never happened_ scenario.

Sam understood that coming like a freight train had broken the thrall, and he also realized that these vampires used sex as a weapon more than any other vampire he had ever met. Dean insisted they stay in the hotel for the day while Sam _recovered_ , and _got some sleep_ , so Sam used the spare time to re-read the novel and try and make sense of anything that was happening here and now. It was clear that Dracula and his brides were sensual beings, but in the time that the novel was written sex was indeed a dirty word, so it wasn’t as detailed as it might have been.

Sam also wanted to find out where the vampire _brides_ (for the want of a better description) had come from. He also wanted to know what else had been in his room last night. He knew Dean had seen the women this time, and eventually they would have to talk about that part of the evening but for now he read and surfed the net, slept when Dean told him to, and ate what was put in front of him.

It was during one of his ‘dozes’ that the idea suddenly came to him. He recalled their journey here and what the taxi driver had said about one of the victim’s fiancé’s saying he’d seen her a few days after her death. Sam frowned, maybe the vampires weren’t just feeding, but turning their victims. Maybe, whoever was their ‘Alpha’ was building a nest here, or even worse, maybe they were building some sort of vampiric army.

It was all very confusing, and so fucking difficult to put together. Clearly there were vampires here, so that was definitely a fact. They had been tailed by a man who looked like, or maybe even was, Abraham Stoker, so there was that. The Harker’s’ had existed, and had become ‘minor’ celebrities. Whomever, or whatever, was driving this thing knew they were hunters and had sent their vampire minions out to . . . , to do what? Kill them? Or even worse, to turn them?

****

“We should go and see this fiancé then.” Dean bit into the large piece of bacon on his breakfast plate, chewing enthusiastically. It was a cold but clear late autumn morning, and Sam was desperate to get out of the hotel to get some air. He’d told Dean about his theories, and his brother had listened eagerly but they still hadn’t really discussed the ‘incident’, as Sam was calling it in his mind. “See if he can throw any light on the subject.”

“Yeah.” Sam dipped his toast into the remains of his egg. “Dean, this thing . . . it sort of started as a joke, didn’t it? A semi vacation with a bit of hunting thrown in, but it’s not so funny anymore, There’s something really serious going on here.”

“Yeah.” Green eyes met his and he could see the turmoil there. He could see the concern, and the love that Dean often tried to keep hidden. “It’s fucking confusing, is what it is. I don’t fucking know where the hell to start.”

“I have the feeling that, unless we do something, there are gonna be more victims, and I don’t mean just now, but for years down the line.”

“You think this thing has struck before?”

“I was thinking about the stories of the Highgate vampire back in the sixties and seventies. There were quite a few sightings back then.”

“Any deaths?”

“None that were recorded, but there wasn’t a world wide web in those days and people pretty much relied on papers and the radio for their news. Killings could have been covered up, or hidden better.”

“We usually have some sort of starting point but this . . . this has all sorts of loose ends. Fuck knows what we can do.” Dean was still staring at him, and now the worry on his face was tangible. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Sammy. I don’t want to put you in danger, again.”

“I’m a big boy, Dean. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, sure.” Dean shrugged. “Let’s get all wrapped up warm, and go visit this fiancé. We need to think carefully about our cover though, cos I’m pretty sure they don’t have the FBI here in Britain.”

“Okay.” Sam gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and got to his feet. “We can think on the way.”

Dean watched his brother go unable to stop staring at his retreating back, those long legs striding out as he moved confidently through the dining area. He was aware that a lot of the women in the room were checking Sam out; smiling and giggling behind their hands as they gawked at him. Dean wasn’t a fool, he knew how striking Sam was even if Sam was unaware of his own obvious attraction. He’d known for years. He’d been looking for years and, if it made him uneasy, then he wasn’t letting Sam know.

He couldn’t shake the memory of the other night and the sight of Sam lying down for those vampire women. His long legs spayed, and arousal so obvious that Dean could positively smell it. Sam had been mindless, unable to move or speak and Dean - Dean had been an awesome brother, and had helped him out. It was simple really, clear. He had to break Sam out of the spell those bitches had cast on him, and the only way to do that, was what he had done. It hadn’t been a problem, and maybe that in itself was the problem. Dean had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed wrapping Sam’s erection in his hand, enjoyed seeing it slip in and out of his fingers, and enjoyed giving Sam perceptible pleasure. Watching Sam, he’d wondered if he had always had these feelings for his brother, or if they had come to him late in life. Both had been straight as far as he was aware. Both of them had loved women, and even settled down with them but, at the end of the day, they had always had a relationship that was dangerously co-dependent, and vaguely unnatural. Did Dean love his brother? Hell, yeah! Was Dean IN love with his brother? The jury was out on that one, but it seemed a distinct and concerning possibility.

****

The fiancé of one of the victims lived on the outskirts of the city, so it was pretty easy to find him. Sam couldn’t help but think the place he lived was ‘quaint’. The houses were older than some they had seen, small and compact, all of them like ducks in a row. As they approached his house Sam noticed curtains in neighboring houses twitching, and pale faces peering out of windows curious.

The doorbell played some unrecognizable, but jolly, tune and Dean couldn’t hold back a small snicker. Sam gave him a quick nudge as the door rattled and was flung open.

“Can I help you?”

A woman stood in the doorway; she was in her sixties or maybe even early seventies, and she wore her hair up in a neat bun, her blue eyes peering at them from under blue framed glasses. Her accent was similar to all of the other English accents they’d heard since arriving, reminding them vaguely of Crowley.

“Yeah, I’m Sam Smith and this is Dean Jones. We’re reporters from the Kansas Herald, in America and we’re investigating the recent murders around here.”

“What?” Her face visibly paled. “I honestly can’t deal with anymore reporters. My poor grandson is beside himself as it is.”

“Ma’am, I realize that this is painful for you but we’ve come a long way, and we really hope that our research might be helpful somewhere down the line.” Even to his own ears Sam’s explanation felt lame, and he shuffled his feet awkwardly.

The woman sighed and shook her head, and then to Sam’s surprise she stepped back and gestured with her arm.

“You’d better come in then.”

They followed her into a neat tidy study, the scent of cleaning polish fresh in their nostrils. She signaled they sit, and then she left the room and they heard her shouting loudly, her voice cracking a little. After a long moment there was the sound of feet clattering down the stairs, and the door opened to reveal a tall, gangly young man with sandy hair and a worried expression.

“Gran told me you were here to talk about . . . ,” his voice faltered a little. “The murders? So I guess you want to know about Jade?”

“Yes.” This was the first time Sam had heard the name but he felt compelled to pretend he was familiar with it. “If you could.”

“We planned on getting married next spring.” He looked down at the table as if it were fascinating to him. “She had been living here with us for quite a while now, and we were saving for a place of our own. We didn’t live in each other’s pockets, and often went out on our own for some space.” He looked up and Sam could see the guilt in his eyes. It was something he recognized, and it was painful to see. “Now in hindsight I wish that hadn’t been the case, you know, cos if I’d gone with her that night she would still be here.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

“Josh. Please just call me Josh. Yeah, everyone is sorry. That won’t bring her back, will it?”

“Josh, I understand this is painful for you but I understand that you believe you saw Jade, or thought you saw her a few times after her death.”

Grey eyes met his for a moment and Sam felt, rather than saw, palpable fear.

“What sort of article are you writing?”

“We want to cover all angles,” Dean interjected and Sam wondered if they should just break cover, but honesty about their ‘job’ had never been a wise thing.

“Yeah, they all said it was just grief but I did see her.” His hands were shaking now and tears visible in his eyes. “I saw her more than once, a-and it was really weird. I was here a few days after the funeral, and it was really late. I felt as if there was someone outside, and when I looked out of my window I saw . . . ,” he paused and gulped and then hiccupped a sob. “I saw Jade. She was just standing there looking at me.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, and Sam nodded slightly.

“That sounds awful, Josh. Do you have a picture of her by any chance?”

“Yeah.” He got up and went over to a small chest of draws and after a few moments of scrabbling about he pulled out a glossy photograph and handed it over to Sam. Sam felt his heart jolt in his chest, and his mouth went so dry he could barely swallow. Wordlessly he pushed the picture over to his brother and they both stared down at it.

The girl in it was laughing, her long black hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She wore a floral mini dress and knee length brown boots, and she looked vibrant and so very happy. Despite the color in her cheeks, the intricate glittering make-up, and the brightly colored clothing she was instantly recognizable. Sam felt his own body respond almost against his will. She was the vampire ‘bride’ from the hotel. Jade was the woman who had held him under her thrall. 

“Do you think I’m mad?” Josh’s voice seemed distant, and Sam wondered if he might actually pass out as the world spun mercilessly around him.

“No. No, not at all.” He heard his brother’s voice. Dean was going for reassuring and gentle. “Josh, can we keep this? Can we come back, and talk to you some more?”

“I-I guess.” A clatter and Sam felt his head being forced down between his knees. “Hey, is he okay?”

“Jet lag,” the excuse rolled off Dean’s tongue. “Do you think we could get some water?”

“I’ll get gran to make us some tea, and I’ve got some whiskey somewhere,” Josh sounded confused now. “You can stay here if you like, rest a bit. I-I’ll answer anything you want to know.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” It was the last thing Sam heard before the world went black.

****

Dean was more than a little concerned. In all the decades they had been hunting he’d never known Sam to pass out, and now he’d done it twice. He sat, uncomfortably, on Josh’s grandma’s couch, and stroked Sam’s sweaty hair away from his parchment white face. Dark lashes fluttered and a little moan emitted from his mouth, and Dean wanted to scream with frustration wondering if he should ask Josh to call an ambulance.

“Is he okay?” Josh hovered fretfully with the glass of whiskey shaking in his hand. His grandmother sat on the chair opposite and kept wiping her eyes with a handkerchief, and Dean realized they’d opened a very large can of worms.

“I saw her too,” the woman’s voice was low and tremulous and Dean stopped his obsessive stroking to look at her. “Night after night, after night. So much so that I actually went to the churchyard to look at her grave . . . t-to . . . ,” she paused, bit her lip and wiped at her eyes again. “To check that she had actually died and been buried.”

Dean didn’t react but his head was spinning. Beside him Sam gave a little groan and opened his eyes.

“Dean?”

He grabbed the whiskey from Josh and let Sam sip at it. The color was returning to his brother’s cheeks, and he was looking more alert by the minute. Josh looked as relieved as Dean felt.

“I know just how he feels,” Josh muttered. “It happened to me a lot just after Jade died. S-She kept appearing in my room.” His cheeks reddened. “My counselor said it was grief,” he added lamely.

Sam sat up and Dean let him lean against him for a moment. The glance they exchanged was a little panicked. The one thing they had learned from this experience was that whoever or whatever was doing this it was clearly trying to build a large nest or – even worse – take over as many innocent souls as it could.

“Where is Jade buried?” Dean aimed his question at the grandmother attempting to keep his voice low and sympathetic.

“We . . . the family has a plot in Highgate. Her mom is buried there, and it was what she would have wanted.”

Dean felt confused and more than a little frustrated. “Just one more question, and we will leave you alone. Has there been anything else weird happening around here? Anything at all you can’t put your finger on?”

“Weirder than seeing my dead fiancée?”

“Yeah.”

“And you believe me on that one?” Josh looked almost pathetically hopeful. “You believe that she was here?”

“Yeah, we believe it,” Sam sounded weak but alert. “There’s no doubt you saw something, and w-we will get to the bottom of it.”

“You are not reporters at all, are you?” Josh’s grandmother stared at them with piercing eyes.

“No ma’am, we’re not. I’m sorry we kinda deceived you.”

“I don’t know who you are, or what you do, but if you can help us get over this. If you can help . . . ,” she paused and swallowed. “If you can help Jade move on, then I don’t care.”

“We’ll certainly try.” Sam got to his feet, he wobbled for a moment but managed to right himself. “Thank you,” he said. “For the help.”

“Don’t thank me.” The old woman wiped her eyes again, and hugged her grandson to her side. “Just find out what is happening here, please.”

“You asked us if there was anything else weird happened,” Josh spoke, muffled by his grandmother’s shoulder. “Well it did. At Jade’s funeral there were two men, and I hadn’t seen either of them before. One was a small, stocky old man and the other . . . . Well that was the eeriest thing . . . he was tall and thin, and dressed like royalty. The older man wore sunglasses but the tall man - his eyes were piercing, and hypnotic. I wanted to speak to them, wanted to ask them how they knew Jade, but after the burial, when I went to find them, they’d gone. That, that wasn’t the most unusual thing . . . when I questioned the others none of them, not fucking one had seen them. It was as if I had conjured them up in my imagination.” He swallowed hard. “They were there, I tell you. Believe me, they WERE there.”

****

Highgate Cemetery was creepy enough in the daytime, but at night it was fucking out there. Dean was thankful they were wearing thicker clothing because the cold bit right down to his bones. He realized, with a jolt that tomorrow was Halloween and already he could see that there were preparations being made for events in and near the graveyard. Paper skulls, fake cotton wool webs and the occasional flashing ghost hung from trees, and there was an air of expectation about the place.

Sam’s flashlight threw orange light onto the path as they followed the wavering trail of light through the graveyard towards where Josh’s grandma had told them Jade was buried. Shit, they had worked in eerier places – Stull Cemetery for one – but this place made him shiver internally, and the shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

Jade’s family had a small crypt/mausoleum near a copse of Yew trees. It was fairly modern in its construction, and still white against the green foliage. There was a shiny bronze plaque fastened to the front of the structure with several names carved into it. The last, most recent, carving read _Jade Allday – 2001 – 2020 – Always in our Hearts_.

“Lock-pick.” It was amazing how quickly they fell into sync. Sam dropping to his knees in the dirt, pulling out the metal implement and working closely by the tomb. After a minute or so the door swung open, and they were able to clamber inside.

It was smaller than most mausoleums they had worked in in the past. There were only four coffins inside and they were all against one wall, the other being left free – no doubt – for future family members. The coffin at the very bottom of the wall was definitely askew and, as he moved closer, Dean could see clearly that it was empty.

“She’s not there.” Sam stared at the open coffin. The white satin where the body should lay empty, only the vague shape of a person was remaining. “That means . . . .”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence, and it didn’t take a genius to guess where Jade had gone. She was either outside their hotel window, or she was back at Josh’s house. 

“She’s gone to feed.” Dean swallowed down bile. “Or worse.”

“What now?” Sam looked more panicked than Dean would have liked, and he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Sam breathed harshly through his nose and blinked once or twice.

“We wait.” Dean reached into the backpack he was carrying. “We can’t get back to Josh’s in time, so we can only hope she’s – um – she’s stalking you!” He forced a smile. “She will come back here before daylight, and then I guess we put her to rest but for real this time.”

“Dean she’s our only lead. We need to know who is doing this, a-and she is the person to tell us. Those men at her funeral . . . my guess is that one of them was . . . ,” he paused as if he didn’t quite believe what he was going to say. “Dracula, and the other was probably Stoker.”

“Stoker? Bram Stoker? Do you think the Count turned him?”

“This is what I think - I think, that Stoker’s account of what happened in the book wasn’t fiction at all, but a true record of events at the time. I think that the Harker’s and Dr. Steward existed, and I believe they did all of the things that the novel said they did apart from the one. Apart from the most important thing.”

“And what was that?”

“Dracula. I don’t think they killed the Count. I mean, maybe they thought they did. But . . . .”

“You think that Dracula turned Stoker?”

“I’m not sure. The other woman who came to me that night.” Sam’s cheeks were red and Dean squeezed his shoulder harder. “I think she might have been Mina Harker.” He bit his lip. “I really hope this doesn’t sound as mad as I think it might, but I think that this whole thing goes deeper and higher than anyone would ever believe. Maybe even to the very top.”

“Sammy, am I hearing right? Do you think t-that Queen Victoria was meeting the Harker’s’ not because they killed Dracula, but because they didn’t?”

“Possibly.” He looked a little shame faced. “Having friends in high places would have helped the Count, and over the years and the decades he could travel freely. He could come and go as he pleased.”

“And each time he would add to his vampiric army. He’d turn more people, have more servants, and more helpers.”

“Yeah. My guess is that the British men of letters were aware of him, and maybe even kept him at bay until they . . . .” He stared at Dean and there was a slight dimple to his cheeks. “Until they ceased to exist.”

“In that case we need to find their chapter house here in London, and go through their files.” 

“I guess there is a record of it somewhere. I could contact Jody, get her to swing by the bunker and see if she can find some things out.”

“Sounds a good plan.” Dean shuddered, suddenly aware that they were crouching in a tiny mausoleum waiting for a _vampire bride_ to return to her tomb. “But what about Jade? If we leave her alive we might be putting Josh and his grandmother at risk.”

“They haven’t seen her for a while, Dean. The only person she seems to be targeting now is me.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because somehow they know we are hunters, and they know we are here. My guess is that they are trying to turn one of us, and then the other . . . and that is what really scares me.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Whoever knows we are here knows us. REALLY knows us. They know just how . . . how . . . ,” Sam paused and swallowed hard. “How co-dependent we are. So if they get to me, then I will get to you.”

Dean was silent for a long time and then he rose to his feet and, reluctantly, packed away his equipment and gestured to the door.

“Dawn’s coming, Sam. I think we should get out of here, and lay another trap for the bitch.”

“Another trap?”

“Yeah, you Sammy. You are gonna be our trap.”

****

He stood at the hotel window and stared out into the cloying darkness; it was just before midnight, and the leafless trees were tipped with ice. It was Halloween and the most likely time for something supernatural to happen but, at this present moment, all was frustratingly quiet.

Sam was dozing on the bed away from the door; he looked pale and there were shadows beneath his eyes, the sharp line of his cheekbones standing out starkly against the cream of the pillow. His laptop stood on the table next to him, open and flashing, research about Dracula and Highgate, scribbled post-it’s stuck to the laptop case and on Sam’s copious number of notebooks. Something stirred deep within Dean, something soft and tender that made him feel oddly vulnerable. This was his brother, and he loved him beyond reason but recently he felt more than just filial love. He shifted uncomfortably, and felt his cock stir guiltily in his pants. The sudden and unexpected desire to touch Sam overwhelmed him and he bit his lip hard drawing blood.

“If we cannot have him, we will have you.”

The voice behind him was soft and sweet and reminded him of the angels; their almost unworldly way of speaking, their echoing tone. He turned almost reluctantly, his heart thundering.

Two women stood in the room. They weren’t like spirits, there was no fluxing, no flickering in and out, yet they seemed insubstantial; like dandelion seeds in the wind. One he recognized instantly as Jade, her dark hair tumbling over white skinned shoulders. She was wearing a shift but it was so intangible that he could see her entire body, her voluptuous curves, and the brown tips of her nipples. His erection was bourgeoning in its intensity and he felt so turned on it actually hurt. The second woman was smiling serenely as she moved closer to the bed where Sam slept. Her delicate hands running gently over his form. Even as he found himself growing weaker Dean became aware of another presence. He thought he could see a large wolf with grey fur, and fangs bared bloody against its whiskery mouth. It was foolish, impossible and he wanted to run, to fight, but all he could do was stare at the woman who was coming towards him. All he wanted was to feel her hands, and her teeth upon his flesh.

“Don’t!” Dean fought against the thrall in which the women held him, fought hard, desperate. He didn’t want the woman to touch his brother. He wanted Sam for himself. It was an odd and possessive feeling, and he didn’t know where the intensity had suddenly come from. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

Even as he spoke the second woman lifted Sam’s hair and nuzzled at his neck. Her eyes looked a piercing red in the half light, and Dean felt his hackles rise. Beside him Jade was moving even closer, and he felt a freezing cold hand on his arm, and could smell the odd scent of rot and roses. He remembered, with clarity the pictures he had seen of the girl in Joshua’s house, and the way that the boy had talked about her. He felt anger seethe its way up through the fog of desire, and he knew there was only one thing he could do. 

On the bed Sam was stirring, and Dean could see the look of puzzlement and confusion in his eyes. The second girl had laid down beside him now, and was moving back towards his neck. There was no blood or gore, and no wounds that Dean could see, and he wanted to cry out. He wanted to protect his brother. 

It happened in a flash. Sam reached beneath his pillow, and Dean saw the glint of silver. The blade cut through the girl’s throat, and her head separated from her body. There was an unearthly scream as the decapitated skull hit the floor, and the body – which had once been so alluring – slumped over the bed. Despite this, the kill was almost bloodless. Dean felt the thrall that had held him dissipate, and he realized that Jade had gone. He looked around for the wolf, but it too had disappeared as if it had never been there. Now all that mattered was his brother.

“Sammy.” He ran over to the bed and gathered his brother into his arms. Sam was big, and it was awkward and more than a little clumsy but he held on tight unable to actually let go.

****

Dean’s face was perilously close to his. His pale, eyes bright and burning. He could smell the sharp scent of his brother’s sweat, and feel the hot in and out of Dean’s breath on his skin. For a moment it was as if they were frozen in time, and then to his own shock and horror, Sam reached up a bloodied hand and wrapped it around his brother’s neck and kissed him.

If Dean were as surprised as Sam he didn’t react, instead he leaned into Sam’s embrace and opened his mouth, searching Sam’s own with his tongue. It was strange kissing a man, even stranger kissing his brother of all men. He could feel the rough brush of Dean’s stubble, and feel his brother’s lips moving over his own. In the deep recesses of his mind he could hear a voice, low, accented, and persuasive.

_’You do not want her. I was so very wrong. You do not want her, you want him. Then have him. Take him. I can make you both mine. I can make you soldiers in my army, and lovers in my bed. Legions of us, for centuries. To have the strongest, the most intelligent, and the cunning - that is my dream, and you can realize it with me.’_

“SAM!”

Dean broke the spell. His hands gently pushing at Sam’s shoulders. It was as if he had woken from a long dream, and he shuddered as he lifted himself up on his elbow. He saw the headless corpse inches from his bed, and saw blood splattered on his machete and on the floor. Nausea swept over him, and he had to breathe long and hard through his nostrils until he got himself under control.

“Dean. Dean I . . . .”

“Don’t!” His brother was all matter of fact, and already had his game face firmly fixed on. “Look, Sam.” Dean reached under the bed and lifted the severed head. 

Sam took another deep breath and looked. The woman’s skin was white, her eyes wide open, and the pupils blown and black. There was something hauntingly familiar about her even in death, and Sam suddenly reeled back in shock and surprise as the recognition hit him.

“It’s Mina Harker,” his voice sounded weak and he felt pathetic huddled on the bed; his arms wrapped around himself for some sort of strange protection, but from who or what, he didn’t really know.

“The woman in that old picture? The woman with the Queen? Makes not a lick of sense to me.”

“In the book they saved Mina.” Sam sat up a little and swung his legs around so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Dean’s face was impassive, but his eyes were gentle, the sympathy obvious. Sam knew then that this was just another thing they wouldn’t talk about, and he wiped a hand across his eyes to stall things for a moment.

“Seems to me that the book was in part a work of fiction.” Dean wrinkled his nose and placed the head on the bed. “But part of it was most definitely fact. We know that Harker and his wife . . . ,” he said and gestured to the head with a sniff. “Existed, but we need to know more.”

“How? This creature, if it is Dracula, has been around for hundreds, or for all we know, maybe even thousands of years. He . . . it . . . is cunning enough not to have been caught.” He shivered then as he remembered the strange words he had heard as he had been compelled to kiss Dean. “H-He knows we are after him, and he wants us to join him.”

“And you know that how, Sam?”

“He spoke to me. Before, in my head, while we . . . .” He felt his face flame, and he stared at the head to distract himself. “It’s not the first time either.” He stared in horror at the corpse. “Dean, we have to get rid of t-that thing.”

“Yeah, well I guess we can’t throw it in the garbage. It’s still pretty late, leave it to me I’ll sort it while you clean yourself up. Go get a shower, feel better, and then you need to explain to me just what it is that Dracula ‘said’ to you.”

****

_“They murdered Mina.”_

_He was angry, and anger was a dangerous emotion for such a man. He paced and he ranted. All of the composure, and all of the carefully reined in passions were gone. The cape which he insisted on wearing now and again swept behind him like the giant wings of a bat, and his eyes burned red, boring into the soul._

_“I know Count, but what are we to do? These are sophisticated hunters. They are more like those English Men of Letters, or your old foe Van Helsing.”_

_“When those English fools were destroyed I thought it would be finally safe to return here, but it appears I was wrong.”_

_“If rumors among your followers here are to be believed, it is these two American hunters who brought down the English Men of Letters”_

_“Indeed.” The pacing stopped, and he turned. “And now they have killed Mina. They have killed my beloved. After over one hundred years they have discovered me, and slayed one of my own.”_

_“Yes, it appears they have, but you are still one step ahead of them. Count, you have gotten into their heads. You have taken some control, and another of your brides can be sent out to dispatch them.”_

_“The thing is, Stoker – I do not want to dispatch them. I want to have them for my own. I want their intelligence, and their cunning. I want their strengths. They will work for me as Harker did, as you do. They will become one with me. They will help me to obtain more and more souls, until I am the one in the ascendancy and the human race will bow to me, and come to me.”_

_“Y-You wish to recruit these hunters? Is that not dangerous? Remember, if you are destroyed then we will all perish with you.”_

_“I do, Stoker. They will become my strongest allies.”_

_“It is a dangerous game, my Count, but I have every faith in you.”_

_“Good. Let us continue with this. We shall move from these teeming streets, and return to my other abode in the ruins of Whitby Abbey. There we can hide in plain sight as we have often done, and there we can tempt these hunters into our lair and have them.”_

_“And if they do not cooperate?”_

_“They will, Stoker. I offer them not one of my beautiful brides, but each other. As you are well aware, I know only too clearly the lusts of men.”_

_“You do my friend . . . you do.”_

****

Sam wasn’t sure if Dean really believed him, although his brother listened to what he had to say with that impassive, _‘yeah another of your psychic freak things’_ look on his face.

“Why you Sammy?”

“I don’t know, Dean.” He looked over to the pristine bed and not for the first time wondered what Dean had done with Mina Harker’s corpse. The woman had been a vampire for over 100 years and now she was gone. He wondered, randomly, just how much of Stoker’s book was true, and how much he had falsified in the name of art. Maybe Harker was still around too, because Stoker certainly was. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“And he offered you eternal life? In his little mind speech?”

“Yeah. He mentioned legions, Dean. Hundreds, maybe thousands of vampires, and us being one with him.”

“Not happening.”

“I know that, Dean. I just don’t know how we stop him. I don’t even know how we find him. London is a fucking huge place, and he could be anywhere.”

“Yeah, he does have an advantage there. He knows where we are, and he knows how to get to us but we don’t even have much of a lead apart from Jade. I’m thinking we ought to be ganking her.”

“I guess so.” Sam thought of Josh and his grandmother, and of the grief they had suffered.

“At least that’s something we can do right now.” Dean cracked his spine and yawned. “Or rather tonight, cos we both need sleep.”

Sam stared at the bed, the chances of him sleeping were second to none. He shook his head.

“Not tired.”

“Yeah, you are. You need to sleep. I want you sharp, Sam. I can’t live with you dead, you know that.”

“Lie with me, Dean,” it sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and Dean stared at him as if he’d grown another head.

“Come on, Princess, you don’t need big brother to tuck you in.”

“I do, Dean. I-I don’t want to sleep alone.”

“Jesus, Sam. It’s the middle of the day, no-one is going to get us now.”

“Please, Dean.”

“Okay.” His brother shook his head and laid down on Sam’s bed. He grinned sheepishly, and held open his arms. “Come on then.”

Sam went into his brother’s soft embrace willingly. He shuffled a bit, and then let his head rest casually on Dean’s broad shoulder. He heard his brother huff a breath, and almost felt his smile. Dean tightened his grip a little and Sam suddenly felt weary, warm and almost unbearably sleepy. Seconds later his mind slipped away and all he felt was safe.

****

He dreamed. There was an old ruined building high on a clifftop. The scent of the sea, and the cries of seagulls loud and insistent. It was cold and misty, like a scene from an old-time horror movie. The shrouded figures moving among the ruins, flickering in and out as if there was some sort of interference. They all moved slowly, but purposefully towards a large stone edifice that stood gleaming silver under the full moon and when they reached it they stood still, and silent, as the lid of the structure opened and a man appeared. It was him. It was the Count. Even in this strange dream, Sam knew it. The man was smiling, eyes black and bright, sharp and cunning. He seemed to be staring right at Sam, willing him to see, opening his arms to welcome him in.

“Come to me. I am here. I am waiting. Come to me.”

The things around him hissed and sighed; all of them whispering the same words, slow, soft, tempting.

“Come. Come. Come.”

And Sam screamed, waking with a start. Dean was staring down at him as if he had lost the last vestiges of sanity. Sam grabbed his brother’s arm and held on so tight he was surprised Dean didn’t wince.

“He’s not here anymore,” he panted, his breath coming hard and fast, sweat pooling in the dip of his neck. “He isn’t in London. He’s gone, Dean. I think I know where.”

***

Dean said very little as he was shoving things into his backpack like a man possessed. Sam could only watch him feeling both guilty and sad. He had been surprised that Dean had believed him so easily, and he had been expecting some sort of protest. Instead Dean had listened to Sam’s garbled explanation of his dream, and just nodded. Now it seemed they were leaving London and taking a train to Whitby. Neither brother had much comprehension of how far it was, or what waited for them there, but they both agreed that – if it meant catching the illusive Count then they should go.

They caught the early afternoon train to York. It was an odd experience as neither of them could actually remember being on a train before. The countryside whipped by the window and Sam found himself staring out at the flashing scenery, at the endless fields of grass in the watery fading winter sunshine. As the light dimmed, he noticed that some of the houses had Christmas trees and colored bulbs illuminating the bleakness, and he realized, with a shock, that it was mid-November already. He shivered inside the heavy jacket he wore, and rubbed his hands hard to warm them. Opposite him Dean was dozing, giving Sam an excuse to stare at his brother. He’d always known Dean was beautiful, but he’d never given thought to it before, never really let his mind go there. Dean had aged, they both had, but that hadn’t changed Sam’s thinking – not really. He could see the lines on his brother’s face, the curl of his closed lashes against pale skin, the freckles still scattered across Dean’s nose, the high-boned cheeks and Sam wanted to touch them all. The strange compulsion making him flush, almost guiltily. The Count had been right. He was lusting after his own brother. Whether it was a sudden thing, or something that had been brewing for years, Sam didn’t know or care about.

They were getting close to the sea now. Two changes of train later, and they were cold, bored and exhausted. It was getting near to 10pm, which wasn’t late by Winchester standards but seemed like an eternity on this seemingly endless journey. Sam realized they really should have spent it discussing their next move, or maybe doing some research so that they were ready for whatever was to come, but they hadn’t and when they staggered off the train into the tiny Whitby station, they were completely unprepared.

****

They had booked into a small boarding house not far from the harbor and the Abbey. Being winter there wasn’t a lot of accommodation open, and the town was pretty quiet. Bathed in moonlight, and mist, some might call it quaint but Dean just shrugged tired shoulders and threw himself onto the lumpy pink covered bed.

“What a dump!”

“It might look better in the morning.” Sam peered into the bathroom. The john was an odd shade of green, and the tub looked so small Sam was convinced that he just wouldn’t fit in there. The shower was low, and situated over the bath. There were two large, fluffy, white towels placed on the top of the toilet lid in, what the owner probably thought, was a welcoming way.

“Doubt it.” Dean turned on the bed-side lamp and looked for the TV remote. “Any sort of vibes from your friend Dracula?”

“No.” Sam came out of the bathroom. He knew his cheeks were red, and he felt suddenly hot and bothered. He moved over to the small window and peered out. He could see the distant flicker of the moon on the sea, and he breathed in for a moment. It had been years since they had been to the coast and from what he’d seen so far this small English town was nothing like anything he had ever seen before. There were no expanses of golden sand, and no boardwalks. On the taxi ride here they had noticed a few pubs open, and one single small restaurant, but the rest of the place had been shut down and quiet. “But I am convinced he’s here.”

“Well, at least it will be easier to find him. This place is fucking tiny.”

“Yeah. I thought we’d start with the Abbey tomorrow. The lady who runs this place told me the tour buses run all throughout the year, so we can take one of those. She says they usually stop at all the points of interest.”

“Should be a short journey then.”

“Your constant cynicism is entertaining.” Sam managed a smile, and his heart swelled a little with fondness, and something more, something he didn’t want to admit even to himself.

“I do my best, Sammy.” Dean was watching him with amused eyes, and he patted the bed suddenly, an exaggerated leer on his face. “You wanna come lie with me tonight, Sammy? Need some help sleeping?”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam slipped out of his jacket and over shirt and went over to sit next to his brother. Dean leered again and shuffled over so that Sam could squash next to him on the bed. It was a lot smaller than he was used to, and he had to virtually climb on top of Dean to get comfy. His brother snorted a little and fidgeted so they were lying side by side, face to face. Dean’s breath was warm on his skin, the unique scent of Dean strong in his nostrils. For a long moment Sam wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss his brother, but he shook himself and settled for closing his eyes and putting an arm casually around Dean’s narrow waist.

“Night, Sammy,” his brother whispered, and all was right with the world.

****

The tour of Whitby took place on an old fashioned open top bus. It was a cold wintry day, but the sun was shining, and Sam insisted they sit on the upper deck so they could see everything clearly. Dean had, reluctantly, acquiesced. He found himself wanting to do anything that Sam wanted. All he needed at the moment was Sam’s smile, and Sam’s laugh, and they were both in short supply recently. He was fucking pissed off with the world, and the way it wore his brother down. Sam had gone through so much, and come out of the other side. They had survived Chuck, only to find themselves in the thrall of a so-called fictional character who appeared to actually exist.

He huddled into the massive overcoat he’d bought in London and peered over the top of the bus. The town was a little livelier this morning, and some of the more ‘niche’ shops were open. The scent of fish and saltwater filtered through the air. Their elderly landlady had told them that Whitby was a busy town throughout the year. She explained that the summer months brought in the tourists, and holiday makers, but when the winter came the town became home to goths and ghost hunters, and those looking for some truth in the story of Dracula. Dean had listened to her and nodded in the appropriate places, but he couldn’t help but let his ears prick at the sound of the Count’s name. He had asked her if she believed in any of it, and she had chuckled shaking her head and sighing. She had she told him she’d lived in the town all her long life, and she had seen and heard some odd things. There was the recent shipwreck, and all that business with the earth and such, but she, personally, had never seen any vampires or lost any blood. 

Now as he looked down onto the busy street below, he noticed that a lot of the people walking along were young, and dressed in black with heavy make-up and strange colored hair. They moved in and out of the various shops, some of them carrying heavy plastic bags, and most of them talking excitedly. Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell they were doing here, and he looked at his brother giving him a hopeful and rueful grin. The bus rattled through the town. They were the only occupants, and it wasn’t entirely surprising as it was absolutely freezing. Dean’s hands had turned to ice even with them thrust down deep into his pockets. Sam’s hair whipped across his pale face and his lips looked blue tinged. They had endured some terrible conditions while hunting, and he couldn’t help but wonder how people here could call this entertainment. 

There were several stops along the way for passengers to get off and explore. Sam explained that they should stay on the bus until they reached the Abbey, and then they could get off and see how the land lay. The bus rounded a corner and followed a sign which read ‘West Cliffs’. The bus was rising now; climbing up a steep hill, rattling so hard it was shaking Dean’s bones. The whole time they had been riding the bus, there had been a tinny commentary playing that came over the speakers at the head of the bus. Dean hadn’t really taken much notice of what the guy was saying. There had been a few facts about the history of the town, the plague, and various other odd British customs but now, now the guy was actually saying something interesting.

_’Bram Stoker, author of Dracula, stayed here sometime in 1896 while he was writing his novel. It was said he was inspired by the Abbey and the harbor. He wrote about the wreck of the Demeter, and the large wolf that the residents of Whitby thought they saw. It was here at 6 Royal Crescent, that Stoker resided, and if you are really lucky, you might even be able to stay in the same room as he did, and maybe you too will be inspired.’_

Sam was on his feet in seconds and pounding down the stairs. The bus stopped, and Dean almost tumbled after him. The driver mumbled something about keeping their tickets, the time of the last bus, and then he waved to them as the bus started up again leaving them standing outside a large Victorian building with a swinging red sign that read, ‘No Vacancies’.

“What the hell, Sammy?”

“He stayed here, Dean. He stayed here back when he was _writing_ his novel. In that article the boxes of earth were addressed to an old Victorian house in Whitby, so . . . maybe . . . just maybe he’s here now.”

“A bit of a long shot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, perhaps but why not? Dracula wants us to find him, Dean. He wants us to come to him. He wants to turn us, and Stoker is part of all of this.”

“We can’t just bust into this _quaint_ old house, and go searching through the rooms for a 100 plus year old undead author . . . even if he is here, he will be staying under an alias. And if he is here, he isn’t gonna just open up his door and let us in.”

Sam shrugged, he pointed to a small sign fastened to the window of the house. 

**Afternoon teas – come inside and warm up with our famous Whitby cream tea and sit by the fire**

“Well, I guess if it’s teatime . . . .” Dean shook his head and pushed the door causing a small bell to tinkle invitingly as they walked over the threshold into the cozy tearoom. 

The old ladies who were enjoying their afternoon refreshments stared at the two huge Americans as if they had never seen a man before. Several of them flushed coyly from behind their menus, while others whispered to each other openly, the eyes on them alight with curiosity. The young girl who served them seemed equally tongue-tied and managed to stammer out a quiet hello, while Dean ordered everything he could, and asked for coffee rather than their ‘weak, insipid tea’.

The room didn’t look as if it had changed much since the Victorian age. The décor was dark and floral; the drapes thick velvet, and the fire a real old-fashioned one with actual coal. There were pictures on the walls and Sam nudged Dean pointing to one of them.

“That’s Stoker,” he hissed.

“Yeah.” Dean recognized their stalker from London, and wondered yet again if the guy really was here. He still had his doubts, but he had faith in his brother. This was a case just like any other, and – just like any other – they would solve it.

“Here you go.” Their waitress returned with her hands full of a tray holding cakes, cream and a huge pot of coffee. She was still blushing but appeared to have found her tongue. “We don’t usually have Americans come here,” she whispered. “They like the more modern places in the town.”

“We’re Dracula fans.” Sam was all charm, and the girl flushed deeper, fluttering her eye lashes. Dean felt an odd sensation deep in his gut and he couldn’t quite put a word to it. He’d seen his brother talk to women before of course, and he’d even seen Sam flirting a little now and again, but somehow it hadn’t really affected him at all until now. He couldn’t help but wonder what sort of spell the Count had put them under.

“Really.” The young girl flushed as she pointed to the picture of Stoker which hung over the fireplace. “Well that guy’s ancestor is staying with us at the moment,” her tone was hushed, a low stage whisper. “Apparently he has stayed quite a lot throughout the years.” She sighed. “It’s a weird place here – very gentile, but then there’s been such a fuss about the recent shipwreck and of course the murders. Those poor women, most of us are under a curfew and have to be home before it gets too dark. Some of the hotel owners have tried to ignore the fact, and the local police are baffled. If you ask me . . . ,” she lowered her voice even more. “It’s some sort of copycat vampire killer.”

“Wow!” Sam exchanged glances with her, eyes wide for effect. “What do you know about the murders? Any juicy tidbits?”

“Not really. There were five girls in all, but the murders stopped as quickly as they started, and there were no real clues . . . apart from the fact all of them had been drained of blood. That’s why I’m convinced it’s a Dracula thing.” She pointed to the portrait again. “Perhaps Mr. Stoker’s relation is writing another book and was interested by the murders.”

“Well, it would be really cool to meet him.” Sam ramped the charm up to eleven. “Maybe he’d talk to us about his famous forefather, which would be cool. He might know more about the murders too. As a Dracula super fan, and a vampire geek, it’d be the best thing ever.”

“I bet it would!” She flushed a little. “But he’s quite a private person.”

“Yeah, yeah of course he is.” Sam leaned forward and gave the girl the full benefit of his soft puppy eyes, and his huge dimpled smile. Dean clenched his teeth, and fidgeted a little on his chair. This was fucking stupid. It was his brother, who was probably old enough to be the girl’s fucking father, and Dean had no reason to be fucking jealous.

“He’s in room 12,” she hissed and looked around to make sure no one had heard.

“Thanks for that.” Sam beamed again, and slipped something into her hand. Dean bristled until he realized it was a £10.00 note rather than his cell number.

The girl pushed the note into her apron pocket and virtually floated away. Dean watched her go and turned to his brother.

“So what now?”

“I suggest we go up to his room.” Sam glanced around at the quiet café. “If someone catches us, we can say we’re looking for the john.”

“Well it’s not the first time we’ve hunted in broad daylight.” Dean took a swallow of his coffee. “What if he isn’t there?”

“It’s still relatively early – won’t get dark for a couple more hours, so let’s hope he’s sleeping.”

“Are we gonna gank him?” Dean gestured to the bag he always carried, never went anywhere without a weapon or two just in case.

“Not till we get what we want from him.” Sam shrugged. “He knows where the Count is.”

“I’m pretty certain I can guess where the Count is without asking Stoker, and even if we don’t know, he’s gonna reveal himself as soon as he knows you’re here.” 

“You think he’s in the Abbey?” Sam had known all along really, but he hadn’t wanted to put it into words. His stomach was tight, and he felt oddly scared. Sure they had fought bigger foes, worse monsters but this was something different. This one was old, dark evil, and it had evaded capture for hundreds of years.

“Seems obvious doesn’t it? From what you said he wants us to find him. He wants us to go to him.”

“Do you think we can kill him?”

Dean heard his brother’s doubt, felt it even, and he reached out and grasped his arm, feeling him tremble beneath his fingers, seeing those familiar eyes dark shadowed with worry.

“We can try, Sammy,” was all he could say, and Sam seemed content with that. 

****

They finished their afternoon tea leisurely as if they had all the time in the world. Once Sam had paid the bill they rose slowly and, instead of heading for the exit, they wandered almost casually into the house.

It was dark in the hallway and there was a strong scent of cleaning polish in the air. A cabinet full of trinkets stood to one side of the stairway, and a small table piled high with tourist leaflets stood on the other. The stairs were carpeted in thick red, and it was fairly easy to climb them noiselessly. At the top there was a long corridor with doors on either side. The first door had a number 1 painted on it with some sort of floral decoration. On the left side were odd numbers and on the right side even. Number 12 was right at the bottom of the corridor right near the fire exit. Sam looked over his shoulder and Dean gave him a barely perceptible nod. Reaching for his lock pick Sam made quick work of the door and, seeing that the corridor was still mercifully empty he pushed it open and they crept inside.

It was a large room decorated with old fashioned furniture and antique drapes. There was a four-poster bed right in the center, and the grey curtains were drawn around it. On the nightstand there was a large lamp and a pair of spectacles and by the side of the bed stood a pair of immaculately polished shoes. Dean gestured silently as he put his hand on the curtains of the bed and drew them back slowly.

In the semi-darkness lay a middle-aged man wearing a white collarless shirt and a pair of trousers held up by suspenders. He had greying dark hair and a thick beard, and Dean recognized him instantly as Stoker. He appeared to be in a deep sleep. A book lay open by his head, and his hand was clasped tightly around it. Neither brother spoke, instead they stared soundlessly at the slumbering man. Sam’s throat was so dry he thought he might choke. Suddenly and totally unexpectedly the man’s eyes opened, and he shot up in bed reaching frantically for his glasses.

“What an earth are you doing here?” His voice was clipped but there was a slight slur to it, an accent Sam didn’t recognize. “I know you,” he continued. “You are those hunters from London.”

“Yeah, that’s us.” Dean moved closer. “We came to have a little chat with you. Abraham is it? Or do you prefer Bram?”

“One shout from me and the owners would call the local police.” The man placed his glasses on his nose, fastidious and careful. “I am a very good customer.”

“You won’t shout,” Dean hissed, and he felt anger bristle through his veins. “If I’m gonna get caught, I might just turn violent.”

“You cannot kill me by normal means, but you know that.” The man, Bram, smiled. He looked nothing like any vampire Dean had ever seen before, he was small and stocky and extremely ordinary. “You are here for a reason.”

“Well, I guess as you know so much about us you actually know why we are here.” Dean’s smile was thin.

“I believe you are here to see the Count.”

“Your master . . . .”

“I am not Renfield, gentlemen. I have assisted the Count for a century or so, and he is grateful for it. But I am not his servant. If anything, I am his biographer, and his bridge between the human world and the world of the undead.” 

“You are a fucking vampire!” Dean wanted to bear down on the man and hack off his head, but Sam’s hand on his shoulder stilled him. It gentled him, and he stayed where he was, teeth clenched.

“Indeed. It was the Count’s gift to me. It will be his gift to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam’s voice was low. “We will never join his ranks.”

“You will not resist him. No one can.”

“Tell me . . . .” Ever since they had started this case Sam’s curiosity was burning him. “How did you come to know this Count, and why did you write the book? Everyone thought it was a work of fiction.”

“It started as a diary, so that everyone would know what had happened. I, like the rest of them, thought that Dracula was a monster - but soon, we were to learn that he was far from that.”

“What do you mean?” Sam moved closer and found himself perching on the end of the bed, his curiosity driving him against his will.

“The Harker’s were my dearest friends, and Jonathan was very excited to get the job of visiting the Count. He wrote to me almost as often as he did his lovely fiancée, but soon his letters stopped. We were both very worried. Mina was staying here in Whitby with her friend Lucy, and she invited me to join her. Lucy was one of _those_ girls.” He looked quite shocked, and Sam shook his head unable to believe it. “Mina was so proper, and always so good. I knew for a fact that she and Jonathan never even went out without a chaperone.”

“Go on,” Dean sounded angry. He leaned against the wall by Stoker’s bed, arms crossed but Sam recognized he was definitely on edge. “We didn’t come here to listen to your diatribe.”

“I was there when Lucy fell _ill_ , and I was there when Van Helsing came. The man was quite mad, but he appeared to know what was wrong with Lucy. We listened to him, and did what we were told. Poor Lucy. Despite all our precautions she died, and as I am sure you are aware, she became the Count’s first bride here in England. At first, I agreed with what the Professor wanted to do, and I was one of the men who went with him to ‘save’ her. I wish now that I hadn’t been so eager to kill her, as I denied her eternal life.”

“For fuck sake!” Dean was irritated, and Sam heard his knuckles crack. He knew only too well what his brother wanted to do. Knew only too well that Dean wanted to take his machete and hack off Stoker’s head.

“My dear boy, you think of the Count as a monster, but you are very wrong. He only wants to give us all gifts. He want to have us with him, as company through the long years.”

“According to your book the Count went back to his native land and was killed by the four good men. Mina was saved and became a good and obedient wife, even giving birth to a son that she named after your little band.”

“I am afraid that that is where the fiction started. We did follow the Count back to his home, but when we went to kill him, we were too late. Van Helsing was lost in the proceeding battle, and Mina was taken. Now she was one with the Count she came to us and held us all in her thrall. Her husband who never wanted anything more than to please her, let her drain him. He let her turn him. I held out a little longer, but the Count said he would help me write, and would help me get my humble book published. Of course we had to pretend it was fiction as the publisher sent my first draft back, as it both frightened and disgusted them. So I added Quincey and Arthur, and I changed the ending. The Count then traveled back and forth between his beloved homeland, and these green shores of England. He came regularly until those British men of Letters discovered him. Damn them! I only just escaped with my life, and they killed my friend Jonathan Harker. Do you know we were all good and trusted friends of Queen Victoria? She loved the Count, and I am sure, if he could, he would have changed her.”

“So the British men of letters kept Dracula away?” Sam felt his face flush and he shook his head at Stoker’s knowing grin.

“Oh yes, but then you, my dear boy, got rid of them and my friend the Count could move freely again.”

“So we set another monster free, did we?” Dean sounded pissed and resigned. “Well then I guess it’s up to us to rid the world of him. Believe me, we’ve faced far worse.”

“You may have faced worse, but – believe me – you will not be able to resist this one. He will not threaten you. He will not try to hurt you. Instead, he will offer you centuries of utter bliss, and he will give you what you desire. He gave me fame and fortune, and I enjoy it to this day. My lusts are always slaked, and my needs are always met. Imagine getting what you want, and having it always. It is better than any heaven, for you get to stay here and see how life changes. You become like Gods.”

Sam felt a strange tingle in the depth of his stomach. He remembered, only too clearly, his lust for blood. Recalled how it had made him feel, and how he had wanted it so badly. Now his lusts were far worse. Now they were sinful, and forbidden. He glanced at Dean and recalled the feel of his brother’s fingers around his cock. He recalled the way he had felt that night, and the night’s that followed. He wanted that again, and he wanted it desperately. They had few friends left now, no family, only each other. Was it wrong to want more? Was it wrong to be tempted by what Bram Stoker was saying? To live forever with Dean.

“Nah.” His brother clearly didn’t feel the same and Sam felt his head clear. Already he was being drawn into this, and he had almost let Stoker’s words tempt him, and move him. “I think we’ll pass on that one. I’ve been to fucking heaven, and to hell - and I don’t fear either of them. Sure, who doesn’t want to live forever? But if it means living as a monster then I don’t want it. I don’t need it.”

“Disappointing, but not entirely surprising.” Stoker moved to sit up and Dean moved like lightening. He ignored Sam’s hissed _No!_ , and leapt onto the bed thrusting his machete through the man’s throat and hacking hard until the head came away from the body. Stoker’s expression of surprise froze on his face and Dean sat back on his heels, his eyes on the man’s prone body.

“Take that as a refusal,” he said.

****

They had fled the small boarding house moving as fast as they could. Sam felt guilty leaving the mess for the gentile young maid that had served them, but Dean had just wanted to get out of there and back to their own boarding house. Sam knew that as soon as the body was found that they would certainly be in the frame, but he was banking on the local police being so shocked that by the time they got to looking at suspects, Sam and Dean would be long gone. 

“That was a fucking stupid thing to do, Dean.” He couldn’t hide his anger and frustration fueled by guilt. Deep in his soul he had wanted to accept what Stoker was offering. Deep down he wanted his brother, and he wanted him badly. “We still aren’t sure where the Count is, and we’ve left a body behind. We could end up in jail before we do what we need to do.”

“Yeah, that’s your problem is it, Sammy?” Dean shook his head and sat down on his bed, green eyes bored into him and he felt his neck grow hot, and his cheeks flame. “I saw your face when he was talking. I saw you were tempted. Fuck, Sammy, I can read you like a book. What I don’t get is why? Why are you so interested? Is it the blood? Is this a blood thing?”

“It isn’t a fucking blood thing!” Sam exploded, a pent-up mess of guilt and shame. “I’m not interested in blood, Dean. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Then what Sam?” Dean’s eyes met his. “What?”

“I-I . . . .” his mouth was dry, and his heart was thundering. He felt sick down to his stomach. “He offered me something I didn’t even know I wanted, Dean. He offered me eternity with . . . .” Stupid tears stung his eyes, and he brushed at them angrily not wanting Dean to see how weak he felt. “H-He offered me you.”

“What?” There was a flush spreading across Dean’s high-boned cheeks, and his eyes were bright and fixed on Sam’s face. “Me?”

“Yeah, and not in the brotherly way.” There it was out there. Dean knew what he wanted. Dean knew how he felt, and he could have ruined their relationship forever with those few words.

“Sam. Sammy.” His brother rose to his feet and moved slowly over to where Sam stood. He put his hands-on Sam’s shoulders and squeezed them hard pulling Sam in close so that they were virtually nose to nose. “You don’t need to give up your soul or your liberty. You don’t need to become some dead guy’s bitch. I fucking love you, Sammy. I’ve always loved you, and I’d do anything for you. Anything.”

“I don’t want you to do this just because you want to make me happy, Dean. I don’t want to do this if you are only doing it to stop me being Dracula’s ‘bitch’.”

“He has no control over me, or you Sam. We don’t need to be in his thrall to be together. Maybe it’s wrong, and maybe we shouldn’t, but I don’t care anymore. We won’t let anyone else control us, Sam. Not Chuck. Not Dracula. No one.”

“Do you want me?” Sam swallowed down hard and he felt his cock harden as his brother drew him so close that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. “Really, Dean?”

“Yeah, I do Sam. We’ve crossed every single line there is, so we might as well step right over this one.”

Dean leaned forward then and kissed him. His lips were soft and dry. The kiss was chaste, and gentle. Sam found himself bending backwards so that Dean had better access. He opened his mouth and let Dean inside, his cock hardening in his jeans, a sudden desperation seizing him. He wanted more, he wanted flesh to flesh contact, and he wanted Dean’s hands on him. He wanted to touch, and be touched. 

Two steps and they bounced onto the bed. They were still fully clothed, and Sam felt suddenly embarrassed, confused. He wanted this but he didn’t know how to start. He’d never done this with a man before, but this was Dean. This was someone who knew him inside and out, and he was desperate for something. Anything.

“Hey. Hey . . . .” Dean gentled him as if he were a child again, and it was oddly erotic. “Just relax, Sammy. Relax and let me take care of you.” 

Dean’s fingers undid his belt and the zipper of his jeans. Dean’s hands tugged them down and threw them off the bed, followed swiftly by his underwear. His shirt, quickly followed by his tee, and then he was naked, cock hard against the flatness of his stomach. Dean smirked and stroked a gentle finger across his erection, and Sam shuddered wondering if he was going to come just from that touch.

“You too,” he managed to choke out and watched in fascination as Dean took off his clothes so that he too was naked, and Sam could see and feel everything. His brother was hard, and Sam reached up and, finally, touched Dean for the first time. He wrapped an eager hand around Dean’s cock and his brother hissed, beautiful eyes closing as his head tipped back and he groaned.

For a long moment they remained like that, touching each other, and it became almost unbearable. Pleasure surged through him. Pleasure that he had never felt before; a burning need to come, to let go. He pulled Dean down so that his brother lay on top of him, sweat gluing them together. He parted his legs and lifted one so that he could wrap it around his brother’s narrow waist, and he hoped that his intention was obvious.

“Fuck, Sam.” 

Gentle fingers probed him, lotion appeared from somewhere, as Sam parted his legs further so that Dean had better access. It was painful to start, but the pain soon receded as Dean hit a secret spot he hadn’t even known existed. His whole world whirled away, coherent thought leaving him with nothing but the urgent need to be filled.

Suddenly it was fast and furious. The glorious feel of his brother inside of him, joined in a way he never thought possible. They had always been so very close, and now they were as close as any two people can be. It was that very thought that sent him over the edge, and he came endlessly, Dean’s name on his lips, over and over and over.

****

They took one of the last buses running to the Abbey. They huddled down at the back waiting until the bus rattled up to the grey, imposing building and they dismounted, backpacks full of the weapons they needed. 

It was a grim evening, late November and freezing cold. Sam’s fingers were blue tinged, and Dean could see his breath in the air. Neither of them spoke because there was no real need for words. They knew the danger they were facing by hunting the Count after nightfall, but they weren’t afraid because they were in this together, and they felt stronger than they had in years.

Dean couldn’t stop looking at his brother. Sam seemed taller, tougher, the shadows beneath his eyes were gone, and he strode out with a new purpose. Love surged within Dean’s chest and he had to hold back the temptation to say something soft and sappy. He’d never really loved anyone more than he loved his brother, but taking that last physical step hadn’t been as hard as he thought. He found he wanted Sam physically, and just one glance at those long legs and that stupid floppy hair made him horny. It hadn’t been just sex though, it had been something far more. It was something that was almost spiritual. He didn’t care about the sin of incest, or the fact that they might be headed downstairs rather than up. He had Sam, and Sam was his for now and whatever of their life was left.

The last bus came and went, and the Abbey closed its doors for the evening. Once everyone was gone it was even colder and darker, the flickering orange of their flashlights their only means of seeing where they were going. It was high up on the cliff and they could see the 100 steps that Mina had climbed in Stoker’s _story_ , the grey and well-worn tombstones in the churchyard below. Sea spray stung their faces and the distant cry of the seagulls was piercing in their ears.

Midnight came and went; the bells of the granite church chiming it down; even as the last strike faded away the atmosphere changed and a greenish mist rolled across the ruins, the hiss and sigh of the wind replaced by the sweet whispers of the dead. Flickering figures in flimsy white shifts appeared in the mist, and appeared to almost float through the ever-thickening cloud.

“So you have come,” an accented voice, low and deep, came from behind them and Sam turned to see a man standing on top of one of the ancient stones. “I knew you would.”

He was tall and thin, his face white, and the bones of his cheeks and chin standing out in stark relief. There was a smear of blood around his thin mouth, and Sam could see the sharpness of his teeth. His face almost vulpine in its appearance. He was dressed as if he was going to attend a special occasion, or some costume party. His suit was black and the cape he wore around his throat was deep red. Eyes as black as pitch burned, and Sam realized that this was the bat he had seen on that evening long ago in London, the evil presence he had felt in the room with him. When he spoke, he spoke with barely contained anger.

“You dare to come here! You have murdered my beloved Mina, and now you have killed Stoker. The man who has been my friend and assistant for centuries. But as you see, even now they are dead, I am still not alone.” He gestured to the white figures who surrounded him. Voluptuous women swaying, fangs bared, and moving towards them with dangerous intent. “I could have given you everything, but now I will give you nothing but death. You will provide sustenance for my brides, and your corpses will be thrown from this place into the briny salt of the sea.”

Sam’s heart was pounding. He was almost paralyzed by the women, their movement slow and alluring. He knew he should reach for his weapon, but he was powerless, and held tight in Dracula’s gaze. Beside him he heard Dean’s heavy breathing, and he knew his brother felt the same. He wondered if they had been over-confident. Or perhaps, they hadn’t really believed this man existed, thinking perhaps he was a figment of Stoker’s wild imagination. They were face to face with a monster; a legend, the films and books nothing like the real thing. Nothing like the creature that stood before them. 

Sam had faced Lucifer, he had faced God but this man, and this thing scared him more than anything he had ever faced in his entire life. He didn’t know why.

“We’re going to die,” he whispered, fear tinged with sorrow that this would be the end of them.

“Sammy, no.” Dean’s strong fingers closed around his own and he felt suddenly stronger. The fear beginning to ebb, brushed away by his brother’s strength and certainty. 

The brides moved ever closer and Sam recalled that long-ago night in the graveyard when Chuck snapped his fingers and the dead rose up. They had fought back then, and they had to fight back now.

“You don’t scare me,” Dean’s voice was low, threatening and he broke away from Sam and moved towards the Count with purpose. The bride’s shifted and hissed like corn in the wind, and their clawed hands reached out for him, teeth bared. Sam whirled around, the machete suddenly in his hand as if it had been magicked there, holy water, crosses, none of these things would touch this creature but Sam HAD faced worse he knew that now. The Count’s thrall was leaving him, swept aside by Dean’s courage, and his conviction. Dracula could die. All things could die. It was time to fight.

Then it was a maelstrom of chaos, blood red splatter against the white of the shift and skin. Head’s flew, and screams rang out. It was like something from a late-night horror, R rated and terrible. The Count seemed to grow bigger with anger, and he began to move, his skin shifting as he turned from bat to wolf to man, over and over again. It was a parlor trick, but Sam was no longer impressed. He joined his brother as they moved through the mist, stamping over long dead corpses already beginning to rot.

“It ends now,” Dean almost screamed. He grabbed the Count and held on tight, even as he shape-shifted, each creature more terrifying than the last. Sam held his machete firm and true as he swung it around, hacking Dracula’s head from his body. Real this time. No fictional story. The head falling to the ground, and the body dropping away. As he died so did the cries of his remaining brides, all of them withering and dying with their master. The Winchesters had done what others could not, and Dracula was no longer a threat to humanity. He could now return to being a simple work of fiction, a familiar staple for horror films, and a waxwork in the chamber of horrors.

They staggered back down the road, it was still bitter with cold but the mist had cleared, and the night sky was magnificent with stars. The sea was visible on the horizon; choppy, white waves cresting over the harbor walls, the beach where Stoker had seen the ship land shone silver in the moonlight. Fact and fiction melded together, and the Winchester’s were once again part of something.

****

They got an early train back to London, so that they could avoid the law. Sam and Dean had been wanted by the FBI, and the Secret Service. They’d been arrested for attempting to kill the President, and they’d been detained in more jail cells than either of them could count. Somehow on this winter morning in England they did not fear the British police very much at all.

The carriage was deserted, and Sam delighted in holding Dean’s hand under the low, cramped table. Dean made a few noises of complaint, but Sam knew, by the smile on his brother’s face, that he didn’t mean it. They were going home to the Bunker, and they were quitting for a while. Really quitting. There would be no more reading, no more computers, and no more research. The Winchesters were done.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam leaned across and kissed his brother hard on the mouth. There was a tiny john halfway down the train and it was a long journey back. Sam wanted to wipe the memory of last night from his mind. He’d had enough blood and guts to last a lifetime.

“Yeah?”

“You know you killed Hitler.”

“Damn right, still proud of it.”

“Well, I killed Dracula.” He gestured to the john with, what he hoped, was an inviting leer. “Wanna celebrate?”

Dean laughed then, delighted, looking year’s younger. The decades of worry dropping from his eyes.

“As long as you don’t bite,” he whispered and got to his feet, Sam following obediently behind.

End


End file.
